


Best (Fucking) Friends

by CatAvalon (CazinaIna)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Crying During Sex, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'm kidding but I really wanted to use that tag, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Injuries, Rimming, Stereo-typical Cat Bathroom Scene, Tears As Lube, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-22 06:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazinaIna/pseuds/CatAvalon
Summary: "Who do you think I am?"Otabek opens his mouth as if to answer, but snaps it shut as he reconsiders, a muscle working in his cheek as his jaw clenches. "I don't know.""Then I'll tell you who I am, then, seeing as my best fucking friend doesn't seem to know," Yuri hisses through gritted teeth. "My name is Yuri, and I've been in love with you for too fucking long to deal with any of this shit."





	1. You really shouldn't let me hold you if you wanna just pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Not the update you're probably looking for but a two part fwb fic that came from literally nowhere. This is quite a short chapter by my standards but I hope you enjoy it regardless!

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Yuri wakes up to a pain in his ass and a pain in his chest. He doesn't know what time it is, but it's late- or early, depending on how you looked at it. Dull light filters through thin curtains, from streetlights and neon signs of whatever city they're competing in at the moment. Toronto, he remembers distantly with his sleep addled brain. Skate Canada. It's just enough to illuminate the room, the bed where he lays, where Otabek sleeps, curled up at the edge with his fists bunched to his chest. He always looks younger in slumber. It makes Yuri want to reach out, smooth away his rumpled hair and kiss his brow. 

That wouldn't be right, though. They're not together, not in the way Yuri wants.

He shifts upright and lets the covers fall to his bare waist, kicks them away and walks naked into the ensuite. Twinges of pain can be felt at the base of his spine, in his wrists. Otabek had held them above his head with one hand as he fucked roughly into him. It had felt  _ good _ , fast and dirty just like it always does, in the moment. Now, Yuri flicks on the light and stares down at the redness of his skin, what look like finger-shaped bruises curved around the fine bones of his arms, and looks up into the mirror to see bedraggled hair and beard burn down his chest. Lilia's going to kill him, if it doesn't soothe down enough to not be noticeable in the deep v neckline of his costume. 

He doesn't even know if it would be worth it anymore.

He showers, although Otabek had briskly cleaned them up after. His hair is still damp with sweat, and his skin feels sticky in a way that makes Yuri want to rake his nails all over himself just to rid himself of the feeling. He has to admit, he does feel mildly better once he's clean and wrapped in a towel, but then he cracks open the door and sees Otabek. Awake, albeit barely, eyes squinting against the harsh light pouring from the bathroom.

"Yura?" he rasps, fumbling for his glasses. 

"It's okay," he says, tightening the towel around himself. It's definitely strange for him to feel self-conscious, especially considering he had his legs spread from Otabek only a few hours ago, but there's something about the intimacy of a body unaffected by desire, and it's not something he's ever shared with anyone. "I just wanted a shower."

"It's-" he squints at his phone, "-half three in the morning."

"I know," he says, even if hadn't. They've got to be up in a few hours, he should be getting every ounce of sleep he can get. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's fine." Yuri hears his bones crack as he stretches, and then the shift of covers as he settles them around him. "You coming back to bed?"

"Yeah." He walks over to his suitcase and toes it open. "In a minute."

He probably doesn't have to get fully dressed, considering Otabek is going to be lying naked next to him, but he pulls on a pair of boxers, and a shirt, and then a pair of leggings too. He tells himself it isn’t to minimise the amount of skin that touches, that it’s just very cold in Canada, but it’s hard to lie to yourself when the feel of Otabek against him is all he can think about.

"Yura?" He's pushing it with socks, but he slips them on anyway, then pads to where Otabek is holding the covers open for him. He catches a glimpse of a bare hip, the beginnings of dark curls below his navel, before he forces himself to look away. Holding his breath, Yuri climbs in beside him, tries to make himself comfortable on the flimsy hotel pillows, and masks the sharp intake of breath as Otabek pulls him against his chest with a cough. "What's on your mind?"

_ You _ .

But that's not an appropriate response for someone trapped in a friends with benefits relationship, so he bites his lip and shakes his head, and tries so very hard not to breathe in Otabek's scent of sex, sweat and sandalwood. 

"Nothing. Just nervous about tomorrow."

"You, nervous?" Otabek laughs, and it shakes Yuri to his core. "Never."

"It happens," he grumbles, turning in Otabek's arms so he can stare at the wall instead of the sleepy smile that's smoothed his lips into happiness. "Don't be mean."

"I'm not." Something trails down his spine, a finger, the backs of Otabek's knuckles maybe, and then his hand is splaying underneath his shirt, stroking the skin just above his waistband.

"I don't want to fuck again," Yuri says, the word heavy in his mouth as he spits it out.

"Can't I hold you without it being about sex?" Otabek asks, confusion heavy in his voice.

"No."

_ No _ , because it will give Yuri's fickle brain the wrong idea. Because Beka's gentle touch is making his heart stutter painfully in his chest. Because if he does, Yuri's going to find it infinitely harder to convince himself that he isn't in love.

Because he's not. 

He can't be.

"Fine." Otabek's hands retreat, and he grunts as he rolls over, yanking the covers so hard they whip over Yuri and halfway across the bed. Yuri scowls, in frustration and anger, and mutters beneath his breath as he trudges the small gap to the second bed. The sheets are noticeably colder, and cleaner, and Yuri tugs them over his head, ignores the bitten off  _ good night, then _ , Otabek shoots his way, and tries not to let his mind wander. 

But why is Otabek annoyed? 

After what feels like forever, Yuri sticks his head out from the duvet and stares over the divide. Otabek's sleeping, but he has rolled over onto Yuri's side, face buried in the same pillow that had muffled his moans earlier. 

_ We shouldn't have ever started this _ , Yuri thinks, forlorn. He runs a hand over his face, into his still drying hair, and makes a list of all the reasons why they should end this little... whatever it is, right now.

He knows, though, that if Otabek asks again, he'll always say yes. 

* 

"What on earth were you doing last night to look like this?" Yuri knows if he says he was getting pounded doggy style Lilia may just disintegrate into dust. He keeps his lips pinched tight as she roughly braids his hair, tugging harder than necessary. "Was it that Altin boy again? I hope you weren't up all night, Yurochka, you know how important sleep is in regards to performance."

Yuri also knows that vigorous sex also affects performance, but that certainly hadn't stopped him. He can feel an ache, muted in his hips, and he's been trying to walk it off all morning to no avail. He's only got himself to blame if it ends up ruining his skate. It may not have seemed so at the time, but  _ no _ was always an option.

"I'll be fine," he says, more to convince himself than Lilia. "I always am."

"Fine doesn't win medals." The truth of the words rattle him, and Yuri sucks his teeth. He knows fine won’t get him anything, learnt that the hard way a few years back when he was just finding his balance again after an ungodly growth spurt. Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t settle for anything less than gold, and he won’t let one bad decision take that away from him.

“Then I'll be amazing."

He wishes he could take back his words.

Warm-ups start, and Yuri knows instantly that his body is out of tune. He takes it easy, tries to get a better feeling for everything, but when his first jump underrotates, and a jolt of pain rolls through his hips when he lands, he can't help the frown that twists at his mouth.  _ Shit _ .

He looks across the ice to see Otabek skating spread eagle, not so subtly staring at him. Yuri scowls, shakes himself off, and pointedly launches himself into a spin so he doesn't have to see the concern that furrows his brow.

They'd argued this morning. Yuri can't even remember what it was about now, but he remembers the words.  _ I thought we were friends, Yura.  _ He’d wanted to shout, scream, cry until his throat was raw and aching-  _ but I don't want that!  _ Because he doesn't; he wants more. 

"What was that?" Yakov barks once their timeslot is over. Yuri rolls his shoulders and slips on his skate guards, deciding he really doesn't want to talk. He begins to walk off, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the walls of the rink until his three minutes arrive for the ice, but Yakov grabs his arm and shakes him. "Don't you ignore me, Yuri Plisetsky."

"I don't know what that was," Yuri mutters, ripping out of Yakov's grip. He does, though. It was regret, for his lapse in judgement last night and the emotions he's allowed himself to feel this morning. Yuri swallows and tries to steal himself, but he can feel his composure slipping with every shaky breath that rattles through his lungs. 

"You need to get yourself together," Yakov says, as if Yuri doesn't already know that. "If you perform like that, you won't be getting gold, much less anywhere near the damn podium."

"I know!" Yuri shouts in frustration, petulantly stomping his foot. Lilia watches the exchange between them with a frown of disapproval, but Yuri can't find it within himself to care anymore as he finally storms away, finding his breath coming a little easier now that he's out from the eyes of scrutiny. 

He hides away in a bathroom where he can hear the loud tannoy announce other skaters. He's last to skate in his group, so once he hears the third skater- Nekola, he thinks it is- he'll drag himself from his one person pity party in a lonely stall and shed himself of his team tracksuit. For now, he kicks down a toilet lid and perches, screwing his fingers into the fabric of his pants and squeezing until his knuckles hurt.

"Fuck feelings," he spits beneath his breath, letting his head bang back against the tile behind him. He wishes he didn't feel this way, pining for something untouchable. It's the fact Otabek became touchable to him that ruined him, warm and real beneath his hands, but not in the way that he wants.

And he wants, so bad he can almost feel it. Bedrooms, not the cold, sterile air of a hotel. Mornings where they can smile and simply  _ be _ , and evenings where they don't have to rush. He wants it to be slow, sensual with  _ feelings _ , not hard and fast and straight to the point. He wants it to not be about sex, but about themselves, how they feel for one another, how they connect.

Too bad the feeling isn't mutual, Yuri supposes.

Nekola's name is announced, and Yuri sniffs back tears he hadn't even realised had formed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand hastily and then sneering once he remembers the eye makeup he's wearing. He quickly smudges the remains of his liner into something that could be considered artful if you squint, and then sneaks back to the rink side so he can wait for his name to be called. 

Otabek's just skating around the outskirts, waving to the cheering crowds. Yuri's heart throbs painfully against his ribs as he shucks off his jacket and pulls off his track pants, letting them pool on the ground before him. He could pick them up, but that would mean missing the start of Otabek's performance, so he kicks them to the side and bites his lip, ignoring the scolding he receives from Lilia and the huffs she emits as she cleans up after him. 

He does amazingly, of course, and Yuri tries not to bitterly think it's because of the intense stress relief from last night. Every quad is crisp, every spin excellently executed. By the time he's in his finishing pose, Yuri's bitten his thumbnail down to the quick and is rubbing chipped nail varnish from his mouth onto the back of his hand.

"Don't do anything stupid," Yakov lectures him, patting his shoulder roughly. Yuri squares his jaw and nods, even if he has no intentions of heeding his advice. He takes off his skate guards and hands them into Lilia's awaiting palm, and then he's gliding onto the ice, ignoring the thumbs up Otabek offers him.

It hits him, then, that this is the first competition they've both taken part in where they haven't wished each other luck.

Everything unravels from there. The music begins, and it feels okay, but okay has never achieved world records. Yuri's jaw aches from how hard he grits his teeth, and he launches himself into his first quad with a roar vibrating through his chest. It hurts, but he was expecting it, and although the landing is a little shaky, it's not anything a fantastic presentation score can't fix.

He's not so lucky with his second jump. With his faux vein of confidence, Yuri throws himself into a quad salchow with vigour, but the landing jolts him so hard, he can't stop himself from falling. He cries out in pain, in frustration, as he hits the ice, palms stinging as they absorb the brunt of the force. All of the oxygen is sucked out of the stadium, in shocked stuttering breaths that are pulled through the spectator's teeth. Yuri isn't going to cry, but his eyes burn, and he pulls himself up with a barely muffled yelp as something feels painfully wrong with his knee.  

The rest of the skate is blurred by his watery eyes. He doesn't attempt any more quads, and the triples he somehow churns out are shaky at best. His left leg is pretty much useless, but Yuri isn't a quitter, won't cut his performance short and throw away his hopes of the Grand Prix Final for something as trivial as a dodgy knee. He's relieved when he reaches his final pose, chest heaving and sweat trickling down his brow, but not for the right reasons. He just wants to escape, hide in a dark corner with an icepack or a hundred and forget everything that's happened today.

He's not that lucky though.

"Yura." Otabek touches his arm, and when Yuri doesn't look, his fingers graze his cheek.

"Don't touch me."

"Are you hurt?" he continues, smoothing away the hair that's fought free from his braid.

"No." He winces as he tries to step away. "Yes."

"I'm getting a medic."

"Stop pretending that you fucking  _ care _ ," Yuri snaps, finally managing to stumble away from Otabek's grip. 

They stare at each other, uneven, Yuri towering over him in his skates whilst Otabek glares defiantly up in his sneakers. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

"Don't do this here," Lilia snaps, lending her arm for Yuri to lean on. He limps feebly by her side to the kiss and cry, where he kicks off his skates as they wait for his results. Yakov was right; he isn't going to be making it to the podium. He's in fucking fifth, with a free skate to come that he doesn't even know he'll be fit to skate for. He waits, at least, until they're backstage to have his meltdown, tearing angrily at his hair as he rips it from his braid as someone comes along to check out his leg. 

He knee is red and swollen, and just looking at it makes Yuri's heart feel the same way. 

"You're lucky," he's told, even if he doesn't believe them. "It could have been much worse."

Yuri doubts it. He doubts it as he sits in the taxi on the way back to the hotel, he doubts it as he has to lean against the shower wall as he cleans himself up, he doubts it when Lilia's bringing him ice back in his hotel room. She eyes the condom wrapper they'd left, ripped in half on the floor, and Yuri's never felt more ashamed of himself.

"I hope it was worth it," she snaps, nudging it with the toe of her Louboutin. "Maybe it will make you think, the next time your hormones are more important than months of hard work."

"At least we kept it safe," Yuri bites back, but shrivels under the intensity of Lilia's glare. She roughly pushes up the leg of his sweats and holds the ice over his knee. Yuri hisses, but doesn't pull away. "I'm sorry."

"It's only yourself you've got to feel sorry for." She sniffs and stares out the window, shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm not the one with an injured knee and the expectations of a nation on my shoulders."

"Thanks for that," Yuri mutters, and then he hears the click of a keycard, the shuffle of shoes dragging across carpet, a bone-weary sigh as a bag drops to the floor. 

"I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you so bad, Yura, but-" Otabek says, rounding the corner and stopping dead in his tracks as he sees Lilia perched on the edge of the bed that they'd defiled hours prior. He eyes the ripped foil on the carpet, and then Yuri, who pointedly stares out the window. "Oh."

" _ Oh _ indeed, Mr Altin," Lilia mocks, upper lip curling. She smooths her hands over her pencil skirt as she stands and rolls her shoulders, taking in a very obvious, controlled breath that Yuri hears whistle through her teeth as she exhales. After adjusting the ice over his knee, Lilia collects her belongings and turns for the door. "I'll leave him in your care- just make sure that your hands don't wander this time."

"Yes, ma'am," Otabek replies, red to his ears. Yuri can't even bring himself to find his embarrassment funny; it probably doesn't help that Yuri's still trying to swallow away his own. 

Despite that, a lump forms in his throat as Lilia begins to walk away.  _ Don't go _ , Yuri wants to say.  _ Stay and look after me, take me away, just do something.  _ But, ultimately, he watches her leave, the slam of the door closing echoing through his chest.

It's quiet for a while, whilst Otabek kicks off his shoes and lines them neatly next to his suitcase. His coat follows, folded neatly on the desk chair where his leather jacket hangs from. A sigh follows, and Otabek's sinking onto the mattress next to him, the springs creaking as he settles.

Yuri startles when a hand drops to his thigh, and he blinks up at Otabek as his thumb begins to massage the tight muscle beneath his sweats. "I don't know why you'd think otherwise, but I do care."

"I don't want to talk." He bats away Otabek's touch with his fingers and crosses his arms, hissing a little as he pulls his knees up, forgetting his injury.

"Then we don't have to talk." It's said pointedly, and the hand is back, pressing against Yuri's hip. Yuri's breath stutters as Otabek slips his fingers under his shirt, softly stroking his side, and hates that his stomach swoops at the thought of him touching him lower.

"Didn't you listen to Lilia?" Yuri snaps, shifting on the bed.  _ It's not real _ , he tries to tell himself, as Otabek's knuckles brush against his ribs,  _ it's not love _ . He catches Otabek's wrist and  _ tugs _ , and apparently it sends the wrong message because Otabek straddles his good leg- very carefully, Yuri notices- and cups his face. Yuri shakes his head. "Sex isn't going to solve anything this time."

Otabek hums, considering. He traces a line down Yuri's throat with the tip of a finger, and he shudders. "I just want you to feel better, Yura.” 

It might. It might make him feel better, but it would be a temporary fix for a very big problem, and Yuri is so tired of pretending that everything is okay. He snaps. He doesn't mean to, but the words are very, hot and angry on his tongue, and he spits them like fire between them. "I don't want to  _ feel _ better, Otabek. I want to go back in time, and stop you from fucking me so hard I can't even fucking skate."

"Yura," he says, dipping his head so their noses brush against each other. It's hard to stay angry, when his breath is so warm against Yuri's skin, and his lips are right there, where Yuri only has to lean just a little closer for them to meet.

He doesn't, though. He never has. It'd hurt too much to indulge in something that isn't real.

"Fuck me instead, then." It's probably meant to sound hot, but Yuri's blood runs cold.

"What?" He struggles away, slapping at Otabek's chest until he rolls off of Yuri and kneels, wide-eyed, at his side. "You think the answer to all of this is for me to fuck you?"

"I'm sorry," Otabek says, sinking away. His eyes screw tight, and he pinches his brow, obviously aware of his mistake. "I didn't mean-"

"Oh, I know you didn't  _ mean _ anything, Beka," Yuri snarks, and Otabek recoils further at his tone. "You didn't mean for this to happen, and you certainly didn't  _ mean _ to imply that I should make this an equal competition. Fuck you like you fucked me, right? Get it good and rough before the free so you don't feel guilty about ruining my chances, huh?"

"You wanted it, too," Otabek says softly, resigned. He pulls his hands away from his face to regard Yuri with eyes so dark he can barely make out the pupils. Remorseful, Yuri thinks, although he doesn't know exactly why. He does know, though, that they penetrate, deep within his chest. His heart throbs, and Yuri chokes, muffling a sob.

"I wanted  _ you _ ," he confesses, regretting it as soon as the words are free. It's too late now. Yuri can feel them shuddering in the silence between them. When he speaks again, it's no more than a whisper, bare-boned and broken.  "I want  _ you _ , Beka."

He sees it, the moment that the meaning hits home. Otabek's brow furrows, then relaxes, then furrows again as his lips part. The breath his drags into his lungs is loud, stuttering. " _ Yuri _ ."

His name splinters over his skin, and Yuri's cracking. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, keeping his hummingbird heart firmly behind his ribs where it threatens to break free from its cage. Otabek reaches for him, the tips of his finger just ghosting the back of his hand before Yuri staggers up, stumbling from the pain that shoots up his knee, and limps around the bed. 

In his peripheral, he can see Otabek moving. "Don't follow me."

He stops to swoop up his shoes, and begrudgingly backtracks for his phone and wallet. Otabek watches him, and Yuri can see his knuckles twitching where his hands are gripped into the bed sheets. " _ Yura _ ."

He could listen. He could give in to the warm depth of his voice, sink into it like honey and stay. It would be so easy to, would be so sweet, because he can see the apologies dancing behind Otabek's eyes, and apologies often lead to affection Yuri has learned from previous experiences.

But he's sick of living a fantasy. He's teeth ache, but he shakes himself free from the trap of Otabek's voice, and storms to the best of his ability out of the room. The door swings shut behind him with a slam that reverberates up his spine, and Yuri leans against the wood, and pretends not to hear the  _ fuck  _ that seeps out beneath the door frame. He takes a moment to breathe, tugging hard on his laces until his toes become numb, before straightening, holding his head high just as Lilia's always taught him. 

Only when the elevator door swallows him into solitude does he wonder where the fuck he's going to go.

*  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't @ me about yuri's injury being inconsistent, i already fucking know xD
> 
> Big thanks to Voxane and Neveraines for being a constant source of support and the best betas around!
> 
> The second chapter is being finished up as we speak, so I'm hoping it will be with y'all soon!
> 
> Y'all can find me here for updates and shit:
> 
>  
> 
> [ zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> xoxo Cat


	2. You gotta make your kiss a little colder if it's ever gonna end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all know i get carried away so here's what should have been the last part but isn't

He ends up at the bar. 

Really, he just wants to walk around the city until his feet are numb, until his heart is too, but his body started complaining halfway down the four flights of stairs he decided to trudge down. The light piano drifting from the lounge is the first thing he notices once he's in the lobby, hands shamelessly bracing his thighs as he tries to regain his composure. He's lucky, really, that there isn't anyone knows inside. Lilia easily could have come down for the glass of sherry she pretends she doesn't indulge in every night, could have caught him red-handed asking for double vodka and cranberries, slumped over with his cheek pressed into the tacky mahogany of the bar top.

He gets cut off after four, probably because he's scaring away other patrons with his smushed scowl and occasion grunts of pain. After a good ten minutes of pointed look, Yuri pushes his snarled hair away from his face and stands, holding his head high despite the wobble in his stance. He leaves a tip atop the imprint of his cheek as a wayward apology and stumbles, blissfully numb from his head to upper thigh, out into the lobby. 

If he's being honest with himself, Yuri wants nothing more than to curl up in his rattiest pyjamas, eat half the things on Lilia's shit list and maybe cry a little bit into his pillow. He can't bring himself to head for the elevator, though. Instead, he wanders outside and stares up at the night's sky. There aren't any stars, but the clouds curl above him like smoke, and he breathes in deep, wanting to drag them into his lungs. 

He stays out until his eyes water and he has to rub his nose on his sleeve. His reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator show flushed skin and reddening nostrils. Luckily, he looks colder than he does drunk. The shiver that rolls down his spine seems to agree.

The lights are off when he pushes into his room, but he can hear the dim murmuring of the television. As he gets closer, he can see the glare from the screen cast over the walls and, when he rounds the corner, scatter over Otabek's face. His eyes are shut, but Yuri's not sure whether he's sleeping. He has this weird habit of closing them whenever he wants to concentrate, whether he's listening to the news, or if Yuri's retelling a tale from his childhood. Honestly, Yuri finds it endearing. It makes him want to reach out, feel his lashes atop his cheekbones and watch his expression as he realises it's Yuri that's touching him.

So he does.

His knees sink into the mattress as his fingers over Otabek's face. They falter, for a second, before dropping to his forehead and running down the bridge of his nose. Otabek blinks, then sighs, catching Yuri's wrist, but not stopping his exploration. He traces the curve of Otabek's upper lip, feels the scratch of his stubble, before moving down to cup his jaw.

"I was texting you," Otabek murmurs, his breath hot as it grazes Yuri's skin. "I was worried."

"Sorry," Yuri says, his touch trailing down Otabek's throat. He feels him swallow, the bob of his Adam's apple oddly sensual, before his hand comes to rest at his collar. "I didn't see."

"Are you drunk?" he asks, when Yuri begins shamelessly pressing against him, nose at his neck and legs straddling so he's rubbing against Otabek's thigh. He isn't turned on, not yet, but the possibility is there, when Otabek is so soft and warm beneath him, so ready to touch Yuri, to hold his waist beneath his shirt and run his thumbs down his sides.

"No," Yuri breathes, dragging his teeth along a tendon. Otabek shudders, then freezes, and Yuri does it again, and again, until Otabek's gripping him tight.

"I think you are," he says pointedly, but doesn't complain when Yuri rolls his hips against him.

"I'm not." He is, but not enough to not know what he's doing. And, to his horror, but more so his delight, he's drawing away to stare down at Otabek's face, his heartbreakingly handsome face, and he's touching his lips with just the tips of his fingers before replacing them with his own.

They've never done this before. Kissing was some kind of boundary Yuri was never willing to cross, but he's hurtling over the line now and losing himself in the free fall. Otabek's hands skim up his torso until they're free to tangle into Yuri's hair, tugging him harder, closer until Yuri gasps against him, lips parting just enough for Otabek's tongue to brush against his. It gets hotter, deeper, when Otabek pulls Yuri into a better angle, then lets a hand wander until it's cupping Yuri's ass, squeezing.

"Beka," Yuri sighs, nipping the corner of his mouth, his chin, before drawing away completely. His fingers search the waistband of his sweats, fiddle with the drawstring coyly before Otabek lifts his hips, inviting Yuri to tug the fabric down his thighs. 

He isn't wearing any underwear, which isn't a surprise, really. Otabek lives in the nude in his own apartment, and prefers to wear as little clothing as possible, something that Yuri isn't going to complain about. He wraps a loose fist around his dick and strokes slowly, teasing, watching Otabek's brows draw together as a soft grunt breaks from his throat. 

"'m gonna suck you," Yuri says, scooting halfway down the bed, kissing his exposed stomach, the jut of a hip bone, before dragging his nose through the thick curls at the base. Yuri feels more than hears Otabek's breath stutter, and he mouths against the half hard length before gently taking the tip into his mouth and suckling. 

"Yura." His name sounds both heavenly and dirty as he continues to work him with his mouth, enjoying the feeling of Otabek swelling to full thickness on his tongue. Once he's fully hard, Yuri uses his fist on the length that he can't quite fit into his drunken, clumsy mouth.

"I wanna fuck you," he says, with Otabek's dick resting against his lips. He dips his tongue out and runs it over the head, down to the sensitive underside, and lets the sound of Otabek's groan fuel his own arousal. "Wanna feel you around me."

"Yura, please," Otabek pants. One last suck, and Yuri's drawing away with a lewd smack, letting Otabek's dick drop to his stomach, precome leaking from the tip to pool at his navel. Yuri swipes at it with a finger and pops it in his mouth, humming. He's always loved the way Otabek tastes, but with his mind clouded with haze, he's absolutely divine. "Yuri."

"What?" he asks, feigning innocent. He sticks the tip of his tongue between his lips before lazily tracing it over the head to the frenulum. 

"You know what," Otabek says, one hand coming to lace in his hair, a thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Yuri pulls away to lean into his touch, blinking up at Otabek with wide eyes, wet lips parted. 

"You're going to have to tell me, Beka," he teases, relishing in the sharp tug of Otabek guiding him upwards and accepting the kiss that follows. He wonders if Otabek likes it, tasting himself on Yuri's lips. Yuri makes it messy, bites at Otabek's mouth and trails his mouth wherever he favours, settling to suckle at Otabek's throat with one lose fist working between his splayed legs. 

Otabek's touch strays from Yuri's face to his chest, and then lower, to the waistband of his sweats, thumbing at the skin exposed by his ridden up shirt. "I want you."

"You've got me," Yuri says, candidly truthful even if Otabek doesn't know it. He has every part of Yuri- his attention, his heart, his soul- and he can take until Yuri's worn down and weary, nothing but blood and bone.

That isn't what he means, though. Even in this moment of delusion, Yuri knows it. Even as he's pulling Otabek's clothes off the rest of the way, even as his own fall to the floor too, he knows. Each kiss is sickeningly sweet, but with the sourest aftertaste that lingers at the back of Yuri's mouth. He takes and takes, as much as Otabek gives, as he opens him up, a single finger, and then two, until Otabek is begging against his mouth, and then Yuri's losing it all.

They haven't done this, either. It's always been Otabek, pressing into him, slicking himself up with the leftover lube on his fingers and bottoming out with a soft groan. This time, it's Yuri, and he isn't expecting it, the tight heat, the way Otabek claws for purchase at his back, the gentlest of moans that breaks the millimetres between them as Yuri pushes all the way in. He feels so overwhelmed, he could cry, or do something stupid like say I love you. Yuri kisses him instead, softly, sweetly, waiting for Otabek to adjust. 

It's the same sentiment, really.

"Are you okay?" he asks, stroking hair out of Otabek's eyes and kissing his brow. He hums, eyes shuttered, and Yuri runs his fingers over the lids, across the shadows his lashes cast, down to his jaw. He suppresses a shudder as Otabek tightens around him, and drops his forehead to rest against Otabek's own.

"Yeah," he breathes, and Yuri feels it more than hears it, hot against his skin. Otabek presses his head up, nuzzles against Yuri's nose before kissing his chin. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Can I...?" Yuri begins, leaving the question unfinished verbally, but resting a hand on Otabek's hip.

"Yeah," he says again, finally opening his eyes. Yuri is consumed in the depths, the richness of the affection that lies there, pupils dark and blown, but surrounded by warmth. 

It's clumsy, as any sort of first is. Yuri wonders whether Otabek's done this before, been on the receiving end. It's hard to tell either way, but a primal part of him he didn't even know existed hopes that he's the first to do this, wants to be the only one to do this. Yuri rolls his hips, and Otabek presses forwards to meet him, and it feels like nothing they've done before but is instantly familiar. The sounds are the same, skin on skin and the mingling of their panting breaths, the jostle of sheets and the way every groan seems caught behind Otabek's ribs, thrumming through his chest. Any inexperience on both of their parts is made up with intent, and it takes a few minutes, but Yuri manages to get a rhythm going to the slow, steady way Otabek strokes himself. Yuri reaches a hand between them and wraps it around Otabek's fingers, the feel of him sliding between their touch as Yuri fucks him a kind of erotic that Yuri didn't know he wanted but knows he'll be longing for every lonely night.

Pleasure builds as pleasure does, slow at first until it threatens to overflow. Yuri chokes out a warning that Otabek reciprocates, and Yuri rolls his hips harder, deep, one fist clenching the sheets at Otabek's head, the other working his dick until he's spilling over Yuri's skin with a deep groan, hot over his knuckles. It's the feeling of Otabek, spent and pleasure-worn beneath him, that fuels his own climax; he pulls out, drops his mouth to Otabek's shoulder, and comes where Otabek's own release is cooling.

"Yura," Otabek says, a hand pushing at his chest. Yuri freezes and allows himself to be manoeuvred onto his side. Otabek's stomach is a mess, and despite his very recent orgasm, he feels a pang of arousal in his groin at the sight of his release streaked over his abdominals. The muscles shift as Otabek pulls himself to sit up, and when Yuri looks up, there's a frown creasing the corners of his mouth. 

"What's wrong?" Yuri asks, feeling mildly nauseous. Otabek moves again, and the frown deepens, and Yuri touches his wrist, seeking. His fingers brush skin for a second before Otabek's pulling away, wincing slightly as he swings his legs off the bed and stands. "Beka?"

"It's nothing." It definitely isn't  _ nothing _ . Otabek looks down at himself and  _ scowls _ , an expression he's only seen once or twice, but never aimed at him, or anything they do. 

"Did I do something wrong?" Yuri asks, unable to stop the anxious lilt to his words. He pushes himself up and watches as Otabek crosses the room and very pointedly picks up the old condom wrapper that's still on the floor.

Oh  _ shit _ .

"How many people have you slept with, Yuri?" He asks it almost offhandedly, but Yuri can see the agitation in his squared shoulders, his furrowed brow.

"What?" Not his best response, but Yuri's left dumbfounded, cruelly sobered from his orgasm high. "What do you mean?"

"How at risk am I of catching something from you?"

His tone is cold, pointed, but it makes Yuri see fire.

"How dare you!" he explodes, rising to his knees on the mattress and regretting it instantly when his injury twinges. The pain fuels him though, and he scrabbles from the bed to confront him. "Who do you think I am?" 

Otabek opens his mouth as if to answer, but snaps it shut as he reconsiders, a muscle working in his cheek as his jaw clenches. "I don't know."

"Then I'll tell you who I am, then, seeing as my best fucking  _ friend _ doesn't seem to know," Yuri hisses through gritted teeth. "My name is Yuri, and I've been in love with you for too fucking long to deal with any of this shit."

He doesn't gauge Otabek's reaction, instead focussing on finding his clothes amongst the carnage on the floor. He feels a touch to his bare shoulder which he shakes off, hastily pulling on his sweats and tying the drawstring so tight he can feel it digging into his hips. 

"Yura."

"Don't fucking call me that," he snaps, regretting it as he hears Otabek's stuttered breath break between them. 

He glances up, two shirts in hand, and Otabek looks so small, stood naked with his hands hanging uselessly by his sides. Yuri hates how he feels guilty, after the implication of Otabek's words. He's the one who should be hurt. He's the one who should look hopeless. And it's hard, not taking back the words, not reaching out and taking one of those lost hands in his and apologising, but he needs to own this moment, needs Otabek to know the damage he's done, and what he has to lose. 

"For the record," Yuri mutters, throwing Otabek's shirt at his chest and tugging on his own, "I've only ever slept with  _ you _ ."

He leaves shortly after, after collecting his shit together and ignoring various forms of pleading. He even lets himself slam the door, really slam it, walls shuddering, people complaining down the hall slammed. It feels good, for a second, hearing the sharp crack of the door hitting the frame, but the force of it breaks something within him, and he bites his lip so hard it draws blood to stop himself from sobbing.

He's got two options now, really; he could go to Lilia, through the torture of explaining why exactly he needs to sleep in the spare bed in her room, or he could fork out the cash it'd take to get another room, and who knows if there's going to be one at such short notice at a fucking international skating competition.  _ God _ . Yuri sits on his suitcase, kicks it half-heartedly, swears a little more than necessary before making his decision.

Option three.

"Yurochka?" Mila says, blinking out into the hallway. She's wrapped in a pink satin robe that Yuri knows doesn't belong to her, and there are fresh love bites on her neck. "It's half past midnight."

"I'm sorry to ruin the romance," he starts, pushing his hair out of his face and looking away, "But I need somewhere to stay. Please."

He ignores the once over Mila gives him, and tries to shy away from the hug she pulls him into, but he learnt long ago that there's no escaping her arms when she wants to comfort him. She smells powdery, soft, and is so warm Yuri can't help but melt against her and try his best not to cry. It's no use, though; he can feel his shoulders shaking.

"Baby," she coos, stroking his hair, and his embarrassingly damp cheeks when he pulls away. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Yuri mumbles, but Mila levels him with a look that he cringes under. "I had a fight. With Beka."

"You guys never fight," she says, unbelieving. Yuri looks up from beneath wet lashes. "Oh."

"It was bad, baba. I-..." but he doesn't want to think about it anymore, doesn't want to think. Anything he'd drank this evening had long worn off, and he feels startlingly, overwhelming  _ awake _ .  "I just want to sleep."

"Come on, baby." She wraps an arm around his waist and leads him inside. At least he doesn't have to greet Sara straight away- she's curled up on what's evidently her side of the bed, very beautiful and very naked. "Don't mind her."

Mila clears off suitcases from the second bed and lets Yuri settle as much as he can. He desperately wants to shower, but remembers he'd left all of his toiletries in their bathroom, so he ends up using Mila's floral shit. It's comforting, in a way, reminding him of his Grandmother and her rose-scented embrace. It gets the job done, though, of washing away his mistakes; too bad it can't do anything about the new marks scattered over his body.

He pulls on a sweatshirt but realises it's one of Otabek's. He takes out another shirt, and this one is  _ borrowed _ from him too. Yuri scowls at his suitcase, at himself, for not having the foresight to think of packing his own fucking clothes. In the end, he decides on the sweatshirt- at least it smells like home, his laundry detergent and aftershave. If there are traces of anything else, it's purely because his mind is fabricating it; it's impossible for him to smell Beka on himself, even if he wants to.

"Hey," Mila says, once he finally slinks out of the bathroom. "You okay?" 

Yuri shrugs, quickly realising that isn't the answer Mila was looking for.

She strokes his cheek, smoothes her thumb beneath a tired eye. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not right now," Yuri says and sighs, feeling himself deflate. The second bed beckons him, cold and alone, and he finds that he can't face sleeping by himself. "Can you...?"

He doesn't know how to finish the sentence, doesn't know how to ask for what he wants- but Mila, bright, beautiful Mila, she knows. She pinches Yuri's cheek and goes to Sara's side, whispers in her ear until she blinking herself awake at the ceiling. "Mind if a little one joins us, babe?"

Yuri can't even bring it in himself to recoil at her jesting, letting out a sigh of relief when she says yes and fumbles around for her nightshirt. It's a squeeze, fitting three in a bed for two, but they somehow manage it, and Yuri finds himself with his head pillowed on Mila's chest, two sets of fingers running through his hair. 

He wakes before the sun, who knows how long later, with a sickness in his stomach that forces its way up his throat. Yuri groans and forces his way out of two pairs of arms, jolting his knee as he collapses in front of the toilet. Mila's there before he can haul himself upright, holding his hair back and rubbing his back. She's murmuring something to her, probably some nonsensical comforts, but his ears are ringing so bad he can't hear anything over the tinny whine ratting his skull. 

He understands the  _ do you need anything?  _ though, and gasps out for water, and Mila fusses around to fill the glass holding their toothbrushes. They clatter to the floor beside him, and remind Yuri that his is still nestled next to Otabek's, in between his aftershave and Yuri's favourite cologne. It makes his stomach heave again, and he spits out the vile taste left in his mouth.

"How're you feeling?" Mila asks, handing a dampened hand towel down to him. Yuri shuts the toilet lid and perches on it, wiping at his mouth.

"How do you think I'm feeling?" he says, but he's too exhausted to lace it with any real venom. He ties his hair back with a band from his wrist and leans his elbows on his thighs. "Like  _ shit _ ."

"Drink that water," Mila says, nudging her foot against his. "You're probably dehydrated."

He does, but it feels gross in his empty stomach. By the time he's cleaned himself up, the sun has risen above the horizon, and Mila announces that there's no point going back to bed if their alarm is going to go off in less than an hour. 

"You need food, and fresh air," she announces, kissing Sara's cheek as she sits up in bed. "And toothpaste." 

Yuri scowls, chewing on the stick of spearmint gum Mila had not so subtly left for him on the edge of the sink. 

They dress and head to the breakfast area, where Yuri tries to force down some plain toast and ignore the nauseating aroma of freshly pressed coffee. It's uneventful, bar from the fact that Yuri has to witness displays of affection that makes something in his chest twist with envy. Casual hand touches, offhand flirtations, things that days ago, Yuri had exchanged with Otabek over dinner. He wants it back with a desire greater than that of any gold medal, any title other than Otabek Altin's Best Friend. 

They're gone before anyone they know shows up, out onto the streets of Toronto in search of a pharmacy. By eight am, Yuri is loaded up with more painkillers, anti-inflammatories and oral hygiene products than he knows hows to deal with, but at least he can brush his teeth and drug up before the free. He gets a phone call from Lilia at around half nine, probably after going to the room he shared with Otabek and discovering his absence.

"Where are you?" Yuri can hear the sigh that she's suppressed in her voice. 

"With Mila." 

"I'll come to you," she states, probably so that there's no opportunity for him to run. He could, if he really wanted to, escape from the room and head to the rink without her, but he senses that he's already in enough trouble as it is without angering- or worrying- her further.

When Yuri opens the door for her knock a short while later, Lilia does nothing but shake her head and wheel her case in behind her. Mila and Sara exchange hesitant looks before announcing their departure, leaving Yuri with nothing but Lilia's disappointed gaze bearing down on him. 

"I don't want to hear any excuses," she starts, gesturing at a chair ornamented with lacy bras and a used towel. Yuri sits, and scowls as Lilia begins dragging a brush through his hair. He wears it long and free for this skate, but Lilia's taken to curling it with a wide barrel tong for more movement as he performs. 

"I don't have any," Yuri says, pulling his knees to his chest, chin knocking against them in the rhythm of Lilia's brushing. She stops momentarily, to dig out the curler and snap it into a socket, but when she returns, her movements are softer, slower.

"I've seen this look before," she comments, her fingers slipping from her hair to Yuri's cheeks. Yuri looks at her in the travel mirror propped up on the desk in front of him, and the expression on her face is oddly tender, reminiscent. "Not on myself, of course."

"Yakov," Yuri mutters. She doesn't talk about their relationship often, but when she does, it's to impart words of wisdom that can't be summoned without the experiences of her past.

"Yes." She nimbly sections off his hair and begins working it around the iron. "I don't have many regrets, Yurochka, but how we handled our relationship is my greatest."

Yuri chews on the inside of his cheek, unknowing. If he speaks, he feels like he'd shatter this fragile moment, the rarity of Lilia's bared heart. His grip tightens around his legs, fingers working deep into the muscle, but he remains silent. He knows, though, that the question is evident in his tilted head, chin high and brows raised.

"We were never on the same page," she continues, punctuated by the short crack of aerosol bursting from a can as she sprays a curl. "Even when we were married, we were never truly honest with what we wanted. Our careers, the prospect of a family- all of it ruined due to my inability to listen, to express my own desires."

"But it worked out in the end," Yuri comments, shifting his weight in the chair. "You're together, now."

"That may be so, but there were fifteen years between what we were, and what you see now."  _ Fifteen years.  _ A fraction of a lifetime, half of one for those unfortunate. Yuri cannot begin to imagine spending fifteen years in this cruel purgatory between friendship and relationship. "Don't look so worried, Yurochka. If you take the right steps, you won't make my mistakes."

"But what are the right steps?" he asks, dropping his feet to the floor. Lilia smoothes her hand over his hair one last time before deeming him presentable, and she rests the curlers to cool on the table top.

"That's something you'll have to figure out for yourself," she says, rounding the chair and dropping a makeup bag into Yuri's lap. "It helps, though, if you're honest. To yourself, and to others."

"Yeah," Yuri mutters. He was pretty fucking honest last night; maybe he  _ had _ taken a step in the right direction instead of hurtling himself off of a cliff.

"That's enough of that," Lilia says with finality, gesturing at the bag. Yuri unzips it and digs around for his foundation, and takes quiet comfort in the normality of the pre-performance process. "Let's find a way to cover up these god-awful bruises."

*

For all his aches and pains, Yuri manages to claw himself to the podium, even if it is by the skin of his teeth. His free skate had been the best of his season, no doubt due to the fire fuelling him from within, and it had certainly helped that he hadn't had any encounters with Otabek at all.

That is, until the podium pictures. 

Otabek finishes in first, and Yuri tries not to be angry, but it's bitterly unfair that he could come out on top after last night. They stand next to each other, unspeaking, as the cameras flash, medals pinched between fingers, their free arms hanging at their sides. Normally, Yuri would be the first to take Otabek's hand, or wrap an arm around his waist and whisper his congratulations in his ear, but neither of them makes the move, until the photographer starts fanning his hand, and Yuri begrudgingly steps up onto the first box.

Their arms brush, and Yuri goes tense. Otabek's knuckles skim the back of his hand, seeking, but Yuri clenches it into a fist.

"You were amazing," Otabek tries, ducking so his lips just ghost the shell of Yuri's ear. "You look amazing."

"Thanks," Yuri says, bitten, cold. He pointedly shuffles to the very edge of the podium, as far away from Otabek's warmth as possible. 

"Yura," Otabek says, reaching out again. Yuri stares down at his outstretched fingers, to his own, shaking at his side, and then up into Otabek's shadowed gaze. "Please."

He does, if only not to cause a scene. It's not exactly a peace offering, but it does help to bridge the gap between them, and Yuri can at least admit that he likes the feel of Otabek's thumb rubbing circles into the back of his hand. It's another thing he's always wanted more of, but never received. Sure, they've laced their fingers together on occasion- when Yuri thinks back to it, it's either during sex or moments of insecurity- but he's always wanted it to be a natural thing. Whilst they're walking, or beneath the table at dinner, maybe even as simple an interaction as watching a movie together in bed- all he knows is that he craves it, these little intimacies, and he craves it with Otabek.

Yuri squeezes his fingers, a tentative little gesture that he's not sure Otabek will feel. The reaction is instantaneous; Otabek squeezes back and pulls Yuri closer to his side. Yuri can't help but be wary still, heckles raised even as Otabek lets go to wrap an arm around his waist. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers into his hairline, and Yuri's surprised he hears it over the roar of the rinkside. 

"Save it for later," Yuri says, stepping away as the official photographer gives a thumbs up. "We need to talk.  _ Really _ talk, Beka."

"I know," he says, and that's enough for Yuri to step off the podium and walk towards Lilia, team jacket held out ready for him to slip on. She brushes hair away from his face and, to his surprise, presses a chaste kiss to his cheekbone.

"I'm proud of you, Yurochka," she tells him, when he steps back and raises a brow. Yuri knows she's not just talking about his skate; he closes his fist in the pocket of his jacket, still feeling Otabek's warmth between his fingers. "Come, let's go to the interviews."

*

He's not ready to be in an empty room with Otabek, yet, but he does at least text him to tell him where he is. It's a big step, really, for someone who likes running away and not being found; he just hopes that Otabek doesn't take it as an invitation to find him. 

He doesn't, thankfully, and Yuri has time to clean up and get ready for the banquet in the small scrap of peace that can be found in the bustle of two over-eager women helping him get dressed. Mila seems to have an opinion on everything in his suitcase, and also seems to think that he should dress up for this make or break conversation.

"I don't think he's going to be focused on how good my ass looks in Versace versus Gucci," Yuri tells her, sitting crossed legged in his underwear amongst the carnage on the bed. "Especially if we're having the most important face to face conversation of our lives." 

"You never know," Mila says, holding up a silk green shirt over one pair of pants, and then moving it to the other. "Every little helps- and you're not exactly eloquent at the best of times, let alone when you're emotional."

"Thanks for the vote in confidence," Yuri mutters, stretching his arms over his head before crawling off the mattress. He snatches the shirt from Mila's grasp, effectively making her decision, and waits for Sara to finish in the bathroom so he can shower and change.

He isn't nervous as such, but he definitely hesitates before stepping into the banquet room. Mila kicks him in the Achilles with the point of her heel, and Yuri gets the message and continues walking, keeping his head held high, his shoulders squared. He relaxes, slightly, when Mila hisses  _ too much,  _ tenses again when she says  _ not enough _ , and gives up entirely when he realises she's just mocking him, stalking over to the bar and grabbing a flute of champagne in a grip bordering on painful.

Okay, so maybe he's nervous, but he also knows that they aren't going to talk here, out in the open, so the least he can do is enjoy the evening as much as he can. The champagne feels funny in his empty stomach, and he's reminded of the fact he hasn't exactly eaten today, so the buffet is his next destination. He keeps his eyes open as he walks, scanning the room for a familiar undercut, perhaps even a warm smile; so far, there's nothing. 

Lilia makes him talk to sponsors whilst there's still pastry clinging to the corners of his mouth. Yuri nods politely through it, as he's been taught to do, and brushes away the crumbs with the back of his eyes whilst scanning the room. Mila catches his eye and makes an obscene gesture with a fist and her tongue in her cheek, and Yuri's eyes water with the intensity of hiding his laughter.

"Just because you're personal life is in distress, it doesn't mean you have to be rude," Lilia scolds him once they're finally alone.

"I wasn't being rude!" he exclaims, or at least he didn't think he was. In the past, he wouldn't have even faked his interest, so either his acting skills are lacking, or Lilia is making a big deal out of nothing. He favours the latter, not that he expresses it. "Can I go, now?"

Lilia's lips pinch, but she nods sharply, turning towards the next waiter who walks past and neatly downing a glass of champagne in three, delicate gulps. 

His patience begins to wear thin after an hour, and he texts Otabek a very chill, very laidback  _ where are you?????????  _ He can feel himself becoming restless; his palms itch, his leg jostles, he can't stop his head whipping whenever he hears anything that sounds like a door. Mila coerces him into dancing, but even that can't shift the tension brewing beneath his skin and, eventually, he decides that maybe the shock of a cold Canadian wind will knock some sense into him.

There aren't too many people outside, but there's enough to make Yuri feel stupid for being outside wallowing by himself. He wishes he had something to do; he hasn't smoked a day in his life, but at least he could use it as an excuse. His fingers twitch, and he walks to the edge of the balcony and grips the stone barrier until his knuckles ache.

"Yura?" He doesn't know how long he's been outside, but the calling of his name startles him. He blinks open eyes that are running from the cold and exhales, his breath puffing out in silvery clouds around him. 

"Hey," he says eventually, turning to lean against the border as casually as his flustered heart would let him. Otabek closes the gap between them and braces his hands either sides of Yuri's hips, and dips his head until their noses brush. Yuri gets the message, leans in slightly and feels the first touch of Otabek's lips, until his mind screams at him to stop, and he draws away. "Wait."

Otabek looks down at the hand Yuri's braced against his chest, then slowly raises his eyes back to his. "What?"

"You know what," Yuri says, but he's confused himself; he'd said they needed to talk. He thought Otabek had understood. "We need to discuss this."

"Alright," he says, shrugging a shoulder. He goes to rest next to Yuri, and Yuri feels like he can finally  _ think _ again without his senses being overwhelmed. It doesn't last; an arm wraps around his waist, which Yuri hesitantly accepts, but then Yuri can feel lips pressing just below his ear, and fingers begin to toy with a button on his shirt.

Yuri's can't help but think he's being purposefully infuriating. "You're not taking this seriously."

"I am," he says, and to prove his point he drops his touch. Yuri hates himself for missing it, but there are greater things to focus on other than the way his heart flutters whenever Otabek's skin had grazed his stomach through the gaps of his shirt. "You said that you loved me."

_ Well that's certainly one way to start things, _ Yuri thinks. He huffs, closes his eyes, tilts his head up towards the stars as he tries to fathom some sort of answer that doesn't scream  _ desperate _ . He settles for, "I did."

"Do you?" Yuri can feel his eyes on him. He drags in one last frozen breath before examining Otabek through his lashes: dark and warm like whisky, with the sharpness of a shot of vodka, the lingering burn of one too. It's unfair to compare Otabek to something so trivial, though; he's unlike anyone Yuri's ever known. Thoughtful in everything he does, but with moments of absolute recklessness, unbearably sweet in his affections yet downright devilish in his adorations. Yuri's always been a twisted thing, chasing after a high but needing something to soften the blow, and he always seems to find both in a pair sparkling of eyes, a flame that jumps from burning bright to a gentle smoulder in a heartbeat. 

So _ , yes _ . 

But Yuri swallows, and he shakes his head, wanting to hide his fragility for as long as possible. "Maybe. I don't know."

"So you don't love me," Otabek says, more to himself than Yuri, but then he turns, and the shadows that are cast over his face are dark, doubtful things that make Yuri squirm. "You were just saying that you loved me."

"Stop saying love!" Yuri'd forgotten that they weren't alone until a dozen eyes are on him, chest heaving and fists clenched at his side. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and tries to let the stab of pain from nails biting into his palms ground him. His next breath is stuttering, strained. "For someone so clever, you can be so fucking dense, for God's sake."

He shouldn't have shouted; he can see the hurt dimming the fire in his gaze. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means drop it," Yuri says, repressing a sigh. He drags a hand through his hair, catching on curls solidified with hairspray, tugging hard just for the stab of discomfort. "Forget that one stupid, little detail for a fucking second, and focus on something else."

"But you said-" Otabek tries again, but the glare Yuri shoots him cuts him down.

"That doesn't mean we can just jump right into things!" _ Calm down.  _ He can feel his pulse spiking, flickering in his throat. It's frustrating, God knows how agonising it is, but yelling isn't going to help Otabek understand. He pinches the bridge of his nose, does one of the breathing exercises that Lilia taught him years ago when he'd go off at anyone who just looked at him funny, and  _ tries _ . "I don't know how you feel about  _ me _ , Beka. I know my own feelings, I know how you treated me, in the past and last night. I know you, your soul, your being, but I don't know your heart."

He sees the moment when it hits, the slope of his shoulders, a frown that twists at his tight-lipped mouth. He reaches out, and this time Yuri doesn't run away. He laces their fingers together and squeezes. "Yura."

"Let's just-..." He shakes his head, then rolls his eyes at his inability to coherently phrase his thoughts. "We should chill for a bit. Try again when I'm not worked up like this."

"But-" Otabek, but he stops himself, sensing the gravity behind Yuri's words, accepting his choice. 

"Beka," Yuri says, for no other reason other than that he can. He moves so that they're toe to toe; the distance doesn't feel cold exactly, but there's an air of finality within it. Yuri crosses it anyway, presses his lips to Otabek's cheek and lets them linger. "Come find me in the morning."

He leaves for the night, hesitant yet hopeful, the future he desires so close he can taste it on the tip of his tongue, intimate, warm and secure. He probably shouldn't, doesn't want to appear over-eager, but he drags all of his things back into Otabek's room, pulls on one of his shirts and crashes out on the spare bed. He hopes Otabek will get the message; _ I want to be here, but I need space _ . 

Sleep comes easier than expected. For a while, Yuri simply lays, collar pulled over his nose, dragging in Otabek's lingering scent, but it's so much easier to let go now that he has something to look forward to, in the morning- Otabek, warm and sleepy. Smiling, Yuri hopes, as they reconcile and start their future together.

The sun rises, and Yuri wakes, but it's not this perfect scene like he dreamed. It's to an empty room, sheets cold, and a phone full of texts messages. There's one that catches his eye, and it's for all of the wrong reasons. Yuri's stomach turns, and he bites a sob into the back of his fist; Otabek, in his suit from last night, lips pressed to another's.

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just going to admit straight up that i myself don't know what's going on but i will make it work i promise ;P
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> Hi, hello! I've been so overwhelmed with love for this fic. Like, it was just another stereotypical Cat Angst thing and y'all seem to be really digging it, which makes me so happy!
> 
> Next chapter will actually be the last chapter this time, I swear xD This is, as things always are, getting away from me. But it'll be happy, it'll be sweet, I swear.
> 
> Thanks for all of y'alls kudos, comments and love! You know how shit I am at replying, it gives me such serious anxiety, but I've read, loved, treasured every single one. I'll get around to them one day I promise!
> 
> unbeta'd this time because i'm a lil criminal so hmu if there's any obvious mistakes i've missed!
> 
> Y'all can find me here for updates and shit:
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> xoxo Cat


	3. If you wanna love somebody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to post the first half of what seems to be forming into a mammoth chapter just so it's here with us! I guess, this is the real conclusion of the fic, but I decided against my better judgement and added an emotional sex scene. But alas, here we go!

Yuri doesn't wait for an explanation. He's tired, so bone-wearily tired it hurts just to breathe. He should have known. He should have known this was too good to be true. Good things don't happen to him, not like this. It makes sense, really, the one real thing he's ever wanted, being clawed away from him. The nails are blood red, holding Otabek's jaw, flashing from the lengths of his hair.

Mila helps him finish packing. He has to call her, in the end, because he can't stop shaking, can't stop  _ thinking _ .

"I just-..." he breaks off on a horrible hiccup, and Yuri has to swallow back tears before trying again. "I just don't understand."

"I know, Yurochka," Mila coos, folding up his suit jacket and packing it on top of his short costume.

"I thought..." But he doesn't know what he thought. That this was real? That there was a chance that he was getting his fairytale ending. God, he's so stupid. So naively stupid, crying like a baby, wearing his shirt. His fingers curl into the fabric until they threaten to rip it, and Yuri almost does it, wants to shred it like Otabek's torn his heart.

"There could be a valid reason," Mila says, but he's sure it's more to comfort him than anything. "You don't know the full story."

"What, he just tripped and kissed someone?" Yuri laughs, wet and pathetic. "That's not how it works, Mila."

"I know, but-..." She sighs, runs a hand through her hair and drops down onto the mattress next to him. "Should you leave without talking to him?"

"I told him I was in love with him," Yuri says heavily, collapsing into Mila's lap. He presses his face into her stomach, and she begins running her fingers through his hair. "I don't think I can face him, not now."

"Okay, Yurochka," she says softly, nails scratching against his scalp. He feels her exhale slowly, feels it burst over his skin. "Okay."

* 

He comes back before Yuri leaves. He isn't wearing his suit, which Yuri takes a little comfort in, because maybe it means he wasn't out all night-  _ No _ . He's not looking for answers, doesn't want comfort. He wants home now, his shitty St Petersburg apartment, Potya. His grandfather.  _ God _ , maybe he should have booked a ticket to Moscow instead. All he knows is that he was stupid to think that Otabek could have been that for him.

They don't speak. Yuri finishes getting dressed, leggings and one of his own shirts, tacky leopard print because he's trying to make himself feel better in any way possible. Otabek watches him from the doorway where all of his belongings already wait, eyes flicking from the luggage to Yuri, a question creasing the corners of his eyes.

"What's-"

Yuri glares at him. He wonders if his eyes are still red from crying. "No." 

"Yura," he tries again, stepping towards him this time. He's going for Yuri's arms but it might as well be his jugular for the way it burns as he swallows. Yuri brushes past him and into the bathroom, grabbing his stupid toothbrush, still next to Otabek's, the shampoo lined next to his on the shower tiles.

"I said no," he spits, teeth gritted, pushing past where he hangs in the doorway. He tries to open his suitcase, but the damn zipper is stuck, and he yanks and tugs to no avail before throwing his things into the wall opposite. It's okay, it's cool, he can buy more shit when he gets back.

"What are you doing?" Otabek asks, as if it's not already obvious. Yuri rolls his eyes and laughs, a twisted bitter thing that makes Otabek blink at him as if he's mad. 

Maybe he is, lovesick and crazy.

"Going home." He hauls himself to his feet, swaying slightly on his still sore knee. Otabek reaches out to steady him, but Yuri slaps his hands away.

"But your flight isn't until Tuesday." He looks down at his hands as if they've been burned, then back up to Yuri. His brows are drawn, and Yuri sees it. Hurt. Visible hurt, more so than Yuri's probably seen on him. Otabek wears a mask that only few can decipher. His happiness is in subtle shifts, little lifts of his mouth, a light in the darkness of his eyes. His pain is solid, shown as strength in his face, gritted teeth and pinched lips. 

Now.

Now, Otabek crumples, understanding Yuri's words. His lips part, and colour drains, bronze skin dull, tarnished. Yuri did that; Yuri's the one to take the warmth from his eyes, but Otabek took it from his own first.

"I changed it," he whispers. It feels dirty, his confession in the open air. He's running away. He's leaving. He doesn't know if he'll ever be coming back. 

Otabek feels it all too. His eyes close, and he pinches the bridge of his nose so tight there are ridges where his nails have been when he pulls his hand away to scrub his face. He steps closer, he reaches out, reaches out to him. "Yura."

Yuri shakes his head, moves away. " _ No _ ."

Something breaks inside Otabek.

"Hey.  _ Hey _ ," he says, voice verging on frantic. He ignores Yuri's wish for space and crowds around him. He's shorter than Yuri, but he's big and broad. Yuri doesn't feel threatened as such, but there's definitely unease swirling beneath his skin, especially when a hand cups his shoulder, squeezing urgently. "What's going on?"

"You  _ know _ what's going on," Yuri seethes, shrugging away. 

Otabek trails after him, but at least he doesn't try to touch him again. "I really don't?"

"Let me remind you, then." He reaches for his phone, forgotten where he'd angrily shoved it under a pillow after he'd booked his new flight. The pictures are easy to find, sent to him by Mila in the early hours of last night; one of them dancing, one of them walking away together, one of them kissing. Yuri shoves his phone in Otabek's face, feeling sick. "Does this bring back anything?"

He watches Otabek's face. He pales further, if that's even possible, and swallows so hard Yuri can hear it. Hesitantly, he scrolls through the pictures, frown deepening. Yuri waits. He looks Otabek dead in the eye and waits. "It's not what it looks like."

Yuri laughs, verging on hysterical. His throat hurts from the intensity, there are tears in his eyes. Everything aches.  _ It's not what it looks like.  _ God.

"It isn't?" he says, voice husky, once he manages to regain some semblance of composure. Otabek looks wary, the hand holding Yuri's phone limp at his side. Yuri takes it, locks the dimming screen, jabs an accusing finger into Otabek's chest as he walks away for the last time. "You could have fooled me."

He has everything he needs, but not everything he wants. His key card is still in his wallet, and the last thing he does is throw it onto the bed before he pulls on his jacket, grabs his stuff and heads for the door.

"Yura. Yuri." He isn't listening, not really. He's wrestling with his things, trying to drag them over the threshold, but they keep getting stuck, like they don't want him to leave. But he's done listening to anything else but himself, and Yuri wants out. He wants out, and he wants to be alone. "Stay. Please. Let me explain."

"What, so you can point fingers at me again? So you can break my heart,  _ again _ ?" He's crying. He hates himself, but he's crying. He wipes an angry hand over his eyes and finally escapes the room. The hallway is empty, bare, welcoming after the tension that clung to the walls in the room. He rests his palm against the cool paint and looks at Otabek one last time. "I don't think so."

"Yuri-!" He pulls the door shut and holds it, feeling Otabek struggle on the other side. He isn't stronger, but he's stubborn, and knows that Otabek is losing fight, losing spirit. Yuri did that. Yuri did that to him, to himself too.

"Please," he whispers, not sure if Otabek can even hear him. It takes a few seconds, but the struggling ceases. There's a bang that jolts through the wood and into the hallway, and then there's nothing. 

*

Yuri hates airports. He hates them when he's with other people, and he especially hates them when he's alone. He doesn't have the luxury of having someone with him that knows everything, so he has to keep on his toes in this unfamiliar place, scanning for information, double checking he's not going to be late. He wishes Lilia was with him just so he could follow her orders; without her, he ended up sitting in the departure lounge for an hour when he could have been shopping instead.

He's got a window seat, which he's grateful for. It means he can just plug in his headphones and stare out the window, ignore the world around him in favour of his own head. Which, in hindsight, is probably not the best place to be right now, not when his thoughts betray him and summon up images of Otabek's broken face, twist the knife further and flash up images on his phone.

They're not there anymore; he'd deleted them in the restroom before he got on the plane, locked in a cubicle to give himself his last grieving moments before privacy is taken away from him. He'd almost deleted photos of them together, too, had actually gone through with it before ultimately pulling them out of his trash folder, knowing he'd regret it in the future. A single, stubborn tear had rolled down his cheek as he'd stuffed his phone back into his jacket pocket. It was the last one, he'd vowed. He knows he's going to break it.

The person next to him is some stuffy businessman, in a suit (on a twelve hour flight, for fuck's sake, invest in a pair of designer sweats at  _ least _ ), already typing away on a laptop. Each little click of the keys jabs into the back of his neck, and he can feel himself becoming increasingly agitated. He just wants to fly, wants to be as far from fucking Canada as possible; if JJ wasn't reason enough for him to detest the country, he's got a bigger, better one now.

Yuri puts his earbuds in and closes his eyes. The first thing his phone plays on shuffle is a mix Otabek made for him for his nineteenth birthday, and Yuri swallows thickly as he quickly chooses one of the heavier, thrashier metal albums in his library and sticks it on repeat. It drowns out the typing, and it's definitely hard to focus on anything when there's screaming in his ear. It'll do for now.

He's not awake, but he's drifting, waiting for the familiar lurch as the plane begins to move. He knows he should listen to the pre-take off talk but it's not like he doesn't fly fifty thousand times a year. He knows what to do if the plane crashes; he'll probably be dead before he utilises any of the information. He sees Potya in his mind's eyes, sees her curled up on his bed, shedding fur all over his leopard print, and keeps that image there, right in his heart. Soon he'll be home to her. Soon it will all be over.

There's jostling next to him, but Yuri keeps his eyes closed, head pressing into the window. He shifts around in his seat to get comfortable again, but something feels off. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to shake it, but he swears he can feel eyes on him. It's not unusual, he's a public figure with a fanbase, and sometimes he's just unlucky enough to be trapped in an aircraft with members of his fan club, but it feels different. It feels familiar.

Something touches his arm, and Yuri jolts.

It's Otabek.

"What in the living  _ fuck _ ," Yuri hisses, pressing as close to the window as he can. Otabek is here. Otabek is here, next to him, in this shitty plane still in this shitty country, wearing half a smile and rumpled clothes. Yuri stares, horrified, at the dangerously small distance between them. He wants to lash out. He wants to hold Otabek close. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"Sitting," Otabek says, and there's amusement in his eyes, but only for a second. Yuri huffs, and looks out for the next stewardess- surely there's someone who'd trade a middle row for a window. "Yura."

"You stalked me. You followed me here. You're on my flight. Why are you on my flight?" It comes out as one rushed, panicked jumble of vowels and consonants that barely make any sense. "Why?"

"Because," Otabek says, kicking off his trainers and stretching out his legs. He's wearing the compression socks that Yuri used to call him a grandpa for wearing. He scrunches his toes in his own pair on his feet. "We need to talk, like you wanted to last night."

Yuri sniffs, pointedly turning his head. The seatbelt warning comes on, and their hands brush as they fumble to do them up. Instead of pulling away, Otabek takes Yuri's hand and holds it, grip tight, urgent, but not so that Yuri couldn't pull away if he tried. He stares down at their fingers, resists the urge to squeeze them, and snatches his hand back, cradling it against his chest as if scalded. "That was before you kissed someone else."

"That was also before you let me explain myself," Otabek says, and Yuri hates how he's right, no matter how stubbornly he tries to convince himself that he's not. "I deserve a chance."

"So you bought a plane ticket, coerced someone into swapping seats, and thought  _ hey, I know what Yuri really loves- talking about his feelings in public, _ " he snaps, whipping a glare over his shoulder. He slumps down lower in his seat, crosses his arms  _ and _ his legs, and juts his chin toward the window. "Well, I'm not playing your game, Beka. I'm out."

He manages to ignore him for longer than expected. An hour, maybe, because they're at least up in the air by the time Yuri feels worn down and brittle. It's not that Otabek's even said anything, but Yuri can feel his gaze, boring into him, thinning him down, seeing through him. He can feel him physically, too, odd brushes of their feet, their arms, the puff of air the skims over Yuri's skin when Otabek resettles, the deep exhale that shakes the cracks in Yuri's heart when Otabek sighs, long and forlorn. 

He checks the flight route and muffles a groan as a yawn- there's still another seven hours until they're in Warsaw, and then another two hours until his connection to Piter. Yuri sneaks a glance beneath his eyelashes at Otabek, who reclines with his head thrown back in his seat, arms drawn over his chest. He wonders whether he's going to follow Yuri all the way back to Russia, or if there's a plane in Poland waiting to take him back to Almaty. 

As if sensing his staring, Otabek opens a single eye, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a resigned smile. Yuri almost,  _ almost _ , smiles back, feels his lips jerking before he bites the inside of his cheek and stares pointedly at the hollow of Otabek's throat. There's a bruise there, made my his own mouth. Yuri wants to press down on it, wants to make Otabek gasp.

He clenches his fingers and shoves them into his lap.

"All I'm asking for," Otabek says softly, so quiet Yuri could have been imagining it if it weren't for the gentle stir of his hair against his cheek as Otabek leans into him, murmurs close to his ear. "Is a chance. Yura, please."

Yuri swallows, throat dry. He hears the click of it, obnoxiously loud in his ears, and wonders whether Otabek can hear it too. If he turns, he knows they'll be face to face. Maybe their noses would brush, maybe Yuri would allow Otabek to hold his cheek, brush it tendering with a thumb. But he stays still, resisting any urge to give in, the bones in his hands aching, nails biting into his skin.

He can do this.

"One chance," he murmurs finally, and he lets the tension in his body go. He slumps in resignation against the window and watches the relief flood through Otabek's features. His brow relaxes, his shoulders drop, and his eyes turn upwards as if silently thanking the heavens. His lips move too; maybe he really is uttering a prayer. 

"Where do you want me to begin?" he asks, head still tilted to the ceiling. A stewardess comes along asking if they want anything to drink, and Yuri supposes now is the perfect time for tea. 

"The photos," Yuri says, once his hands are cradling a paper cup of black earl grey. He lets the steam waft over his face and seep into his tired skin, effectively waking him up somewhat. It also means he has something to do with his hands, God forbid Yuri tries to touch him. "Explain them."

"Yelena Hayek. Ice dancer." Otabek states, as if that means anything to Yuri. All he knows is that she's blond and blue and breathtakingly beautiful, and of course Otabek would choose someone like  _ her _ over someone like  _ him _ . Otabek frowns into his coffee and uses the little wooden stick to trace zigzags into the foam. "She trained with Jean and I, back when I lived in Canada."

"Have you fucked her?" probably isn't the first question Yuri should ask, but it's the first thing that escapes his mouth regardless.

Otabek blinks at him in surprise, brows furrowing. His grip crumples the rim of his cup. "Of course not."

Yuri studies him. Really studies him, his eyes, his mouth, the set of his jaw. He knows when Otabek is lying, mostly because he is absolutely awful at it, and to his relief, he can't see any of the telltale signs. No shifting gaze, no nervous twitch of his mouth, just a pair of earnest eyes that burn, hotter than the sip of tea that scalds his tongue, than the frustration that cools to a simmer beneath his skin.

"Tell me," he says simply, cocking his head. Otabek stares at his throat, at his mouth, and Yuri watches him swallow thickly before hanging his head.

"Jean used to say I led her on," he confesses, knee twitching as he rests his weight on the ball of his foot. "That I was too kind, flirtatious even. You know me, Yura. I didn't think so."

He wouldn't have. For years now, Yuri's been trying to resist Otabek's natural charm, his easy friendliness and warm, enchanting smiles. He knows he's not intending to seduce, but it happens anyway. The lilt of his laughter, the way his throat works when he throws his head back to laugh,  _ really _ laugh, is enough to render any man weak. Yuri should know; he's strong, stubborn, and yet he fell.

"I guess she came to watch me skate," Otabek continues, shrugging as if it doesn't matter. But it does matter. Someone harbours feelings for Otabek strong enough that they'd travel across the country for him. At least Yuri can one-up her, he thinks bitterly. He's travelled halfway across the world just to be by Otabek's side. "She came to find me after we spoke, obviously tipsy. Gushed about how long it had been and asked if we could talk over a dance."

"You didn't dance with me," Yuri says rather pathetically, hiding the tremble of his lower lip by chewing on the rim of his cup. 

"I would have, if you asked," Otabek says, lifting his shoulders. Yuri wishes that he had, now. Stayed at the banquet a little longer, got the courage to slow dance to the string quintet amongst the other couple, maybe let Otabek kiss him, slow and deep, one hand in his hair, the other searching on his waist.

Yuri shakes his head, freeing himself from his daydream. "And the kiss?"

"Wasn't reciprocated," Otabek says bluntly, then knocks his head back against the restraint. "God, it was so awkward, and in front of  _ everyone _ . I've never had to turn someone down like that before, Yura."

_ You've turned down me _ , he thinks weakly, but that's a complete and utter  _ lie _ . He can't have been turned down if he had never said anything. Every rejection has been in his own head, a figment of his imagination, a demon of his own insecurities. 

"Why did you turn her down?" he asks, because he has to know, has to hear him say a reason, just  _ something _ that'll keep his hopes alive.

"What do you mean  _ why _ ?" Otabek asks,  huffing a laugh of disbelief. He drops his coffee cup into its holder and turns full bodied until he's facing Yuri. His socked toes brush against Yuri's own, their knees pressing. Yuri stares desperately at his lap before he feels a light touch to his chin. He frowns, but he looks up, caught in the honey-warmth of Otabek's eyes. "Because of you."

"Me?" he breathes idiotically, feeling himself lean into Otabek's hand.

"God, Yura, of course  _ you _ ," he says, stroking Yuri's jaw, then up into his hair. Yuri closes his eyes and simply basks in  _ this;  _ a tender touch, a revelation. Skin on skin-  _ words _ on skin, too, a gentle breath that clears away any lingering doubt that clings to him. "I've been in love with you for years."

He feels giddy, overwhelmingly so, wants to burst out with laughter, or with tears; he can feel both bubbling in his chest. 

He does neither. Yuri looks down into the dregs of his tea and smiles stupidly. " _ Oh _ ."

"Just  _ oh _ ?" Otabek mimics, gently taking the cup from Yuri's hand and disposing of it so he can wrap his fingers around Yuri's own. He's smirking, Yuri realises, when he finally looks up again, a farce of self-confidence masking the shy pink flush that bleeds over his cheekbones.

"I'm processing, fuck off," Yuri mutters, but the muscles in his cheeks are aching. He draws a line over Otabek's knuckles, traces the veins beneath his skin until they rest on the underside of Otabek's wrist. He can feel the pulse there, steady and strong, feels it pick up when Yuri drags his foot up the inseam of Otabek's leg. "You love me."

"I love you," Otabek confirms, and slowly, giving Yuri the chance to pull away, he rests their foreheads together. "And you love me."

"And I love you," he breathes, letting his eyes drift close as their nose brush together. 

It feels like an eternity before Otabek finally brings their lips together. Soft, so very soft, barely a touch yet full of the raw, unspoken desire that they've held back for so long. Yuri pushes closer, moves his arms until they're wrapped around Otabek's neck, pulling him down, down, until their mouths are pressed together, hot and tight, moving against each other as if it's the most natural thing in the world. 

It feels like coming home. Otabek's tongue sweeps against his lower lip, and Yuri lets him in, lets him into his heart, lets him heal the mess that Yuri's caused with his doubt and diffidence, with his disbelief that any of this could be possible. They break for air but don't move far, lips swollen and sweet pressing against any exposed skin as they cling to one another, chests rising and falling.

"Oh my God, we were so fucking  _ stupid _ ," Yuri murmurs against Beka's neck, ignoring the awkward press of the armrest digging into his stomach. He blinks up, can see people staring at them, but he doesn't care. He holds eyes with one overly-curious man and brings his mouth below Beka's ear and bites, enjoying the vibration of the sharp gasp that rattles through his chest.

" _ Yura _ ," Otabek says. It could be scolding, it could be encouraging. Yuri makes a soft noise and sucks, marking Otabek as his. "Oh,  _ God _ ."

"How long until we get off this plane?" Yuri asks, fingers pushing up the hem of Otabek's shirt and disappearing under the fabric, trailing over the warm skin covering his abdominals. 

"Too long," Otabek says, rolling his shoulders as Yuri scratches his nails down his stomach. "Hours- look, Yura, you've gotta  _ stop _ ."

"Or what?" Yuri asks, quirking an eyebrow. He deliberately sticks the tip of his tongue out of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and runs it over his lower lip, feeling the indentations of Otabek's teeth from where they'd sunk into the soft flesh earlier.

Otabek watches, then levels him with a stern gaze. " _ Or _ I'm going to ask the poor businessman I traded seats in first class with to trade back."

"I don't think that's how it works," Yuri muses with mirth, belatedly shoving up his armrest so he can melt against Otabek's side. He rests his head against Otabek's shoulder and loops his pinkie around Otabek's own. "No takesies backsies."

Otabek nuzzles into Yuri's hair and kisses his temple, and it's all calm for a while. A stewardess offers them a blanket, and although it's stiff and smells oddly medicinal, Yuri can't complain as Otabek wraps it around their shoulders and tucks in all the edges. One-handed, Yuri might add, quite the feat really; his other is still snug around Yuri's waist. They put on a movie, some easily digestible coming of age flick, but they mostly ignore it in favour of each other, kissing gently, softly confessing secrets between the millimetres that separate them.

They discover when their infatuations started, when they first realised they wanted something more, something deeper, fuller than any casual affair could provide. Mistakes are realised and reconciled by soft presses of lips and gentle caresses to sensitive skin. Yuri has to remind himself that they're not alone, has to pinch himself and think dreadful thoughts of Yakov in one of Lilia's tutus when Otabek murmurs his apologies into Yuri's neck, nipping and suckling at the skin at his collar.

"I'm sorry," Yuri says too, when he realises he's never actually apologised. Otabek's fingers trace the dip of his waist and trail down to his hip, and he hums his acknowledgement. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have just  _ left _ , but I was so hurt, and upset."

"I never should have said those things to you, either," Otabek acknowledges too, and when Yuri pulls back to see his face, he finds that Otabek looks positively sheepish. "About sleeping around. The thought just came, and I couldn't bear thinking about you with someone else."

"I couldn't ever think of  _ myself _ being with someone else," Yuri says, rolling his eyes. He wrestles a hand out of the opening of the blanket and cradles Otabek's jaw. "It's all good, just as long as you never speak to me like that again."

"Never," Otabek says, leaning into Yuri's palm. "I promise."

"Good." He guides Otabek down and leans up the final few centimetres so meet him. Yuri likes this more, prefers the tender, almost timid touches in comparison to the fierce, fervent way they'd fucked. He finds he isn't going to miss it, although he's sure they will have their moments of desperate desire; he's very much looking forward to being loved completely, irrevocably. 

Patience isn't one of Yuri's many virtues, but it's the one that gets tested over the next couple of hours. He longs for home, for his bed, but in a different way than he did before. He longs for Otabek lying next to him, tangled together, breathing each other in. He wants  _ intimacy _ , the kind you can taste, salt and skin and residue pleasure, caught on the tip of another's tongue. He's tempted to follow, when Otabek gets up to use the bathroom, sneak in beside him so they can kiss in the privacy of a too small restroom, pressed against the door as a hand sinks beneath his waistband.

He can see it happening, but he blinks, and knows he wants more than just a rushed, stifled quickie. Otabek gives him a look, almost as if he can read his mind, and gestures with two fingers that he has his eyes on him. 

Yuri sticks out his tongue. 

The rest of their first flight passes in a haze of sleep and semi-conscious exchanges. It's a crime, Yuri grumbles to himself as their trudging off the plane, that direct flights from Toronto to St Petersburg don't exist. He doesn't complain about being able to sleep in Otabek's lap during the layover, though, fingers running through his hair, his fist curled into the waistband of Otabek's sweats.

His patience is tested again when they can't convince anyone to swap seats so they're together on the second flight. He isn't entitled enough to make a scene, but he does grumble when Otabek chastely kisses his pout and deposits Yuri into his assigned aisle seat with a fond smile. Yuri takes small comfort in the fact that they can at least see each other across the way.

It drags longer than it should, and Yuri resorts to checking his social media after paying an extortionate amount for the wifi. Mila's worried, as predicted, and even Sara has sent him a DM on Instagram checking up on him. Lilia, on the other hand, assumes that he has everything under control.

**Lilia** : I take it that you're safe, then

**You** : Yeah

**Lilia** : And that Mr Altin is with you

**You** :...Yeah

He always knew Lilia was cunning, but never assumed she'd interfere with his love life in such a way. It makes sense- she was the only one he had sent his flight details to, she was the only one who even knew he was leaving. He stares at the side of Otabek's head until he turns around, a silent  _ what _ forming on his lips.

Yuri doesn't clarify, but he does flip him off. 

When they land for the final time, Yuri's luggage takes forever to come. It's early evening in St Petersburg, but it feels as if it's the middle of the night, and when they finally step out into the streets to hail a cab, Yuri's surprised to see the sun on the horizon. He follows it with his head resting against the glass, a hand on the one that Otabek rests on his upper thigh. 

"I'm so fucking hungry," Yuri says, biting off a yawn in the elevator. They barely fit, what with three suitcases and a large holdall between them, and Yuri fights with a handle to lean over and drop a kiss to the corner of Otabek's mouth. "For you, but mainly for pizza."

For all his plans of jumping Otabek at the door, Yuri finds himself fumbling for his keys at the bottom of his bag, body crying with relief when the lock finally turns, and a familiar red velvet sofa comes into view. They drop everything and collapse on it, Yuri on top of Otabek, arms awkwardly pressed between them and knees knocking together. They kiss, but it's unhurried, lazy even, in the way Yuri messily mouths at Otabek's jaw when he no longer possesses the energy to hold himself up, only stopping when a weight lands on Yuri's back. He grunts into Otabek's mouth, and fumbles behind him, fingers connecting with soft, downy fur, the quick strike of a paw.

"Hey, baby girl," Yuri coos, somehow manoeuvring himself so that Potya is cradled in his arms and he's cradled in Otabek's. Potya mewls and purrs, rubbing her face all over Yuri's body and licking at his hand when he goes to stroke her soft cheek. She positively glowers at Otabek when he reaches over Yuri to pet her. "I'd steer clear of her for a while. She gets awfully jealous."

"I wonder where she gets it from." Yuri elbows him in the stomach, still playing with Potya. Otabek wheezes, and chokes out, "I'll call the pizza place, then."

They manage to stay awake long enough to strip down to their underwear and devour a vegetable supreme. Yuri's never been overly fond of garlic, but he doesn't mind when Otabek gives him buttery kisses after eating dough balls; he's sure he doesn't taste too fresh himself. To his credit, he does try to initiate some kind of sexual activity for dessert, but Otabek stops him before his hands can dip into his underwear, not unkind in the slightest, more so satiated.

"This is enough," he says simply, taking Yuri's hand away from his hip and holding it against his chest, over his heart. "I wanna slow it down."

"Like, no sex?" Yuri asks, not able to hide his disappointment. 

Otabek laughs, and Yuri feels it beneath his fingertips. "We had sex two days ago, Yura. I just want things to move naturally."

_ It feels pretty natural to want your dick in my mouth _ , Yuri thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. Oblivious to Yuri's internal dialogue, Otabek raises his hand and brushes a kiss to his wrist before letting his lips linger at his palm. "I love you, Yuri Plisetsky."

Yuri feels his cheeks heat, and he hides his burning face in Otabek's stomach. "I love you too."

They stumble to bed not long after, Otabek half carrying Yuri, who carries Potya in turn. It's a struggle just to brush his teeth, much less changing into something more comfortable. Yuri gives up in the end when he catches sight of Otabek waiting beneath his duvet, covers pulled up to reveal his bare body, brilliantly bronze against his pastel leopard print sheets. Yuri shrugs and lets his briefs drop to the floor, trying hard not to think how this is the first time he's let Otabek see him like this, naked yet not aroused. He sighs in relief when Otabek's eyes don't wander from his face, evolving into a fully fledged moan when his head finally hits his pillow. 

"That good?" Otabek asks as Yuri shuffles to make himself comfortable. He curls around Otabek's side, wraps a thigh around one of his legs and buries his face in the crook of his neck.

"You have no idea," he mumbles, rubbing his nose into his skin. Otabek reaches over and clicks off the light, and begins stroking down Yuri's spine. At some point, Potya tries to squeeze herself in the space between them but gives up when Yuri refuses to yield for her. It's imperfect and awkward, because there's half human shoulder, half fluffy cat paw in his mouth, but Yuri doesn't care. He's in his little piece of heaven, at home with those he loves, and he wouldn't change it even if he could.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah, this is where i was gonna end it, but for all you horn dogs out there, there's a smut chapter already in the making. i wanna get it done by friday so look out for it soon!
> 
> thank you all for the love and support! i've said this so many times before, but if commenting back didn't give me such bad anxiety, i would just shower y'all all with my love and joy! i read every single one and your words really do fuel me!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @[ zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ or follow me on twitter @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> tbh i use twitter wayyyy more now so come join me there!
> 
> see y'all really soon! 
> 
> xoxo Cat


	4. I'm All Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Except.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it!

_Except_.

He can't sleep. There's something there, gnawing at the back of his mind, an itch beneath his skin that is only relieved when he rubs himself against Otabek's thigh. He tries to convince himself he's satisfied, that Otabek's gentle touch, the soft murmuring of his  _I love you_ against his temple is enough, but he wants to feel it, wants it to bruise the delicate skin between his thighs and wrap around his throat until he has no choice but to be claimed by it.

It's too late, though. Otabek's already asleep, breathy snores filling the space between them, and it's accompanied by the deep rumbling purr that Potya emits, relieved to be in close proximity to her human. Yuri bites his lip and rolls onto his back, pulling Potya with him and resettling her on his chest. He's selfish, despicably so. He has everything he's ever wanted in the world and more, and yet it isn't enough. Laying in the darkness, he wonders if anything will ever  _be_ enough.

He turns his head so he can watch Otabek in slumber, face soft and twisted towards him, as if seeking him even in sleep. Yuri alternates between stroking Potya's nape and ghosting his fingers over Otabek's jaw, watching his nose twitch, his lower lip. He's never really allowed himself to stare, so he does so openly, when there's minimal risk of being caught and even if he is, the repercussions are minuscule.

Strong skin stretches over stronger bones, and thick stubble covers his jaw. Yuri's fingers ache, wanting to scratch his nails through it, feel it scraping his sternum, burning the insides of his thigh. Otabek prefers to be clean shaven, but Yuri loves it when he looks rugged. There's a certain appeal to his early morning visage, a dishevelled, sometimes dirty charm in the way his hair falls into his eyes, caught in long lashes, often times in the corners of Yuri's mouth. He wonders if he asks, potentially even begs, if Otabek will grow it out for a few days; he wants to be able to feel the path of his kisses long after he's left Yuri's side.

 _Oh_.

The thought of Otabek leaving thuds hollow in his chest. He doesn't want to think that they're living within borrowed time, but the world doesn't stop around them even if it feels like they're suspended in this warm, golden reality. How many days do they have? How many hours? Yuri bites his lip and rolls his eyes to the ceiling, following the flashes of car headlights around the room. It feels like they're wasting their moments together, throwing away the seconds through sleep. And he likes being in Otabek's arms, he really does, but the sweetness of it is soured with the eventuality of having to sleep alone again.

"I can hear you thinking."

Yuri sucks in air through his teeth. To his credit, Otabek doesn't say anything. He shifts beside Yuri and wraps an arm around his waist and curls into him, kissing lightly at the hollow of his throat. Absently, he runs his fingers through Otabek's hair, trying to focus on the soft scrape of his teeth against his skin, the weight of his leg thrown between his own. It's a comfort, sure, more a distraction, really. It works much like a plaster, but Yuri's always been one for ripping off bandages as soon as the edges fray.

"How long have you been awake?" Yuri murmurs after a long while. He slipped down as low as Otabek and they lie on their sides, face to face. They aren't touching any more, but the way Otabek looks at him feels intimate, like a lover's embrace. Yuri's fingers lock into the sheets between them, wringing the fabric with sharp, tight twists. He can hear the rustle of him doing so, can hear his hitched breathing loud in his ears, and just below that, the whoosh of his blood pumping through his veins.

"Long enough to know something's eating you," Otabek says, blunt but benign. He tucks loose hair behind Yuri's ear and lets his fingers linger, and Yuri tilts his head so he can let his lips rest over the pulse point in Otabek's wrist. "What's wrong, Yura?"

"Nothing," Yuri says faintly, but it tastes like a lie. Nothing is wrong. In fact, Yuri would go as far to say that everything is  _right_.

 _Yet_.

He can't explain it, but it feels as though there's something missing. It's idiotic to believe that love correlates to sexual intimacy, but for years he's been living on the delusion that it does. If anything, having sex with Otabek has tainted him, or at least his perception.

"Yura."

He turns to look at the man who claims to love him, and wonders why he can't believe it's true.

"I'm fine," he says, because that's at least true. He runs a hand over his face and sighs; it's not doing any good just lying and wallowing. "I'm gonna shower."

By shower, Yuri means sit on the tiled floor and let the water hammer his spine. His hair is falling in his face, and he keeps stubbornly pushing it back with shaking hands until he just fists them in the gnarled, sodden locks and tugs. It's sharp, and stabs right through the urge to cry, and instead, Yuri finds himself on the verge of screaming.  _Selfish_ , so needlessly selfish. He unfurls his fingers, raises his palm and swings it towards the ground.

It doesn't make contact.

" _Hey_ ," Otabek says, fingers tight around Yuri's wrist. He looks up, startled, and tries to wrench himself free before ultimately changing his mind. His body sags, shoulders slipping down the steam-slicked walls, and he allows Otabek to  _see_ him, wet, exposed. "Yuri."

He doesn't say anything, just tugs until Otabek's on the floor beside him, one arm around his waist, the other gently cradling his face. There aren't any words or any watery reassurances. There aren't any kisses either, just the strength of Otabek's presence, the tenderness of his touch. Yuri has so much he wants to say, questions he's not sure he wants the answers to.  _Why. Why do you want to be with me, when I'm like this?_ But he lets them stew behind his teeth, building and building until he releases them with a shuddered sigh.

" _Yura_ ," Otabek tries, but Yuri shakes his head. He rolls his neck, tries to regain his composure, but the smile he forces is wavering at best. Sucking his teeth, Yuri shifts so he's kneeling. Otabek watches him carefully as he swings a leg over his thigh, purses his lips when Yuri straddles it and rests their foreheads together. He doesn't close the distance straight away; instead, he holds still, allows him to soak in the apprehensive way that Otabek holds his hips, the feel of his breath mingling with the spray, an intoxicating heat against his skin.

Yuri kisses him slowly, a raw, tender thing that leaves him gasping for something other than oxygen. He keeps the intensity low, nothing more the lingering presses of lips, moments of shared breath, and lets his trembling fingers smooth up his arms until they spay against the sides of his neck.

When he draws away, there's something bright in Otabek's eyes. Understanding, perhaps, or maybe just the first stirrings of desire. He glances down between their bodies, though, and finds that both of them are still soft. It's a reassurance, somehow, that Otabek isn't sexually aroused when he has every incentive to be, with Yuri wet, spread across his thigh, pressing into him in a way that could be perceived as provocative.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Otabek asks, hands still safely on Yuri's waist. Yuri glances down at himself, fine skin framed by finer fingers, and drops his arms to cover where Otabek's touch meets him with his palms.

"I-..." Yuri tries, but the right words dissipate into the air with the steam. He tilts his head back to feel the water fall onto his face, soft against the back of his eyelids, fresh on his tongue. Otabek kisses his open mouth chastely, then runs his tongue to chase water drops on Yuri's chin. "You're going to think I'm stupid."

"Yura." His tone is almost admonishing, and he cups Yuri's jaw so he cannot look away, smoothing his thumb against the underside of his throat. "You were my friend before you were my lover, and you're my friend now that we're more."

Yuri blinks.  _Lover_.  _He thought of me like that, even then?_

Otabek cocks his head, brows furrowed, and Yuri leans to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Okay," he says, and then he does so again, more to reassure himself. Communication, he muses, or lack thereof was their downfall in the first place. He steals one last, lingering kiss before he steels himself, squaring his shoulders sliding back on Otabek's thigh so the temptation to distract himself in minimised. "Do you really love me?"

"Yes," he says simply, without decoration. His gaze is strong, unwavering, much like his adoration promises to be. "Yes, Yura, yes."

There isn't any  _why_ ,  _don't you believe me?'_ s, and he doesn't ask for an explanation. Otabek's always understood Yuri in a way that he hasn't ever been able to himself. Sure, the past couple of months have been clouded with other persuasions, so to speak, but that hasn't changed the fact that Otabek can read between almost all the lines that Yuri tries to blur.

"I just," Yuri starts, but finds himself laughing at himself, head tilted to the ceiling.  He rolls his eyes, shaking his head at his incapability. "I don't know. I just find it hard to believe it, you know?"

Otabek frowns, and Yuri panics for a second, wondering if he's taken offence. Then he speaks, soft and low, inexplicably serious for someone sat, soaked in shower water. "We should never have started doing what we did, Yura. I had feelings there, and so did you."

"I know," Yuri agrees, strangely sad. He ducks his head to hide his face in the crook of Otabek's neck, fingers sneaking up into his hair to twist nervously within the lengths. "But in a way, it made me feel like you loved me."

Yuri feels the moment of understanding, feels it in the stuttering of Otabek's breath, the way his nails dig into the flesh of Yuri's thighs. It doesn't hurt, not really, but it's enough to know that whichever way Otabek has interpreted his words, he doesn't like it.

"Yura," he says carefully, and Yuri draws back. He's met with apprehension, a slight ruddiness to his cheeks, a downward twist to his mouth. "I'm not going to fuck you."

"I'm not asking to be  _fucked_ ," Yuri states bluntly, because he's not. He doesn't think there was ever a point where their cold, rushed exchanges were enough. They filled in the gaps where love was absent, but it was just that; a temporary fix where something much greater was absent. And now he has what was missing, and it's so close he can almost taste it in the heat that pours from Otabek's skin and warms Yuri's once aching heart.

He needs it, like he needs air in his lungs and Otabek's eyes only on him.

"Beka, I want you to make love to me," he breathes, tugging until Otabek's ear is close to his mouth. He presses his lips to his cheek, then brushes them against the shell of his ear. He feels the shudder that rolls through him, feels it mirrored through his own body. "I want to  _feel_ it."

"Yura," he whispers, a choked, little thing that breaks over Yuri's skin and pieces itself back together beneath his ribs. Yuri shifts forwards, rubbing himself against Otabek's stomach as his mouth continues to move against the sensitive skin of his ear.

"I want to know what it's like to be with someone when they're both openly and intimately devoted to one other." His voice drops, barely audible above the soft patter of water hitting their skin. He leans back, traces his finger along the curve of Otabek's cupid bow, then holds it over the swell of his bottom lip. "Show me."

"Okay," Otabek says, smoothing his palms up Yuri's back, over the jut of his shoulder blades, until they cradle his jaw.  "Okay."

Yuri pushes up onto his knees and presses Otabek into the tile. Their noses don't fit together properly at first in his eagerness, but it fuels Yuri desire to make things _right_. His hair is pushed out of his face, and he leans in again at a deeper angle. It's deeper, hotter than before, messy in a way that only desperation can incite. Every moan is captured between pliant lips, the sinful sweep of tongue, elicited further by the tug of teeth on lower lip, and Yuri allows himself to sink into it, hips rolling, seeking.

They end up lying, sprawled on the floor with Otabek half covering Yuri, protecting him from the spray with his back.  In another life, he'd be concerned about his hair slipping down the drain, but he's focused on the way Otabek's mouth moves over his skin, searching for new places to taste, to mark with teeth and tongue.

"I want to mark you, so everyone knows you're mine."  _God_ , Yuri wasn't expecting dirty talk, but it makes him gasps, hips searching for friction that Otabek yet relents to give. "I want you to feel the ache of my mouth when I'm not around. I want you to look in the mirror and think of me.  _Us_."

" _Beka,_ " Yuri gasps, back arching as Otabek suckles at a spot just below his ear. He fingers grasp uselessly at the sides of his head, wanting to feel, to sink into _something._ Hair, heat,  _flesh_.

"God, Yura," Otabek breathes, shifting down his body and leaving a hot, reddening trail with his mouth. Yuri's fingers slip into his hair as his lips roam over his chest, slip down onto his shoulders and digs when he works at a nipple between his teeth. Yuri makes a sound that would make his face flush with embarrassment if it wasn't already heated with arousal. "You're so beautiful."

"Beka, please," Yuri whines, begging for something,  _anything_. His head swims with the praise, his veins sing with it, too, and all of it seeps low, hot and heavy in his groin.

"I've never seen someone as beautiful as you," he continues, kissing back up to his face again. Yuri surges forwards, wanting to taste the honeyed words in his mouth, but Otabek pulls away with a smile, stroking Yuri's cheek. "So strong, so determined, so unfairly pretty."

Yuri keens, hips jolting and finally brushing against Otabek's own arousal. They both gasp, and Yuri reaches between them, wraps his fingers around them and strokes once, twice before Otabek is capturing his wrist and pulling it away. He kisses Yuri's palm, the slick sheen of their mingling precome, licks it from his lips, and then runs his tongue over Yuri's love line.

"Look at you," Otabek says, playing with Yuri's fingers. He's panting, they both are, from restraint and desire. Otabek's eyes skim over Yuri's bare body, but he doesn't feel shy. He feels sexy, confident in a way he has never done before. He bares his neck, and Otabek bends to kiss it, and then his mouth. He can taste the two of them together on his lips. "Look at what you do to me, my beautiful Yura."

And Yuri's looking. He's never truly taken Otabek in before, too afraid of falling any deeper, nothing but the quick appreciative glances he allows himself in the heat of the moment, or whilst he's sleeping beside him. His eyes linger now, starting with his face, framed by his damp, waving hair, and sinking lower to the water collecting at his clavicle, running down his broad chest. Beautiful isn't a word he thought he'd ever equate to Otabek- handsome, definitely, perhaps even gorgeous- but he is, a masterpiece of thick muscle and definition, strong bones and smooth skin.

Yuri runs his fingers over his stomach, down to his hip, resting his hand with his thumb nestled in thick, dark curls. He's never really thought about it, but if he had a preference in cock, this would be it; long, thick, uncut, flushing red at the tip. He reaches out to touch, feeling the weight of him, twitching in his hand. Otabek makes a guttural noise deep in his chest, a grunt that runs breathy, when Yuri swipes his thumb over the slit to collect the precome gathered there and spread it over him in the downstroke. It's wasted, whilst they're beneath the water, but Yuri loves the way Otabek's eyes flutter closed, lips parted, as Yuri touches him.

"Beautiful," Yuri says, as Otabek spoke of him. Otabek startles, and colour flushes his cheeks, seeps in patches down his chest. "You're beautiful, too."

" _God,"_ Otabek splutters, and Yuri loves seeing him like this, a fracture in his composure exposing his vulnerability. He leans up and is met halfway in a kiss that's much too soft for the way Yuri's hand still moves over Otabek's body. They break apart but don't separate, and when Otabek speaks, his lips brush against Yuri's. "Let's go to bed."

They get distracted on the way. Otabek tries to carry him, but it's dangerous on the slick tiled floor, and Yuri laughs half in fear as he begins to slip. His fingers dig into the meat of Otabek's shoulders, legs tightening around his hips, knowing that if Otabek falls, at least he will too.

Under any other circumstances, Yuri would complain about getting his sheets wet, but Otabek's already distracting him, mouth at his neck, touch travelling from the small of his back, lower until Yuri's gasping, curving into him at the first intrusion. They stop so they can settle onto the bed, Yuri leaning against the headboard, Otabek between his legs, looking up at him with a question he cannot decipher.

"Can I?" he asks, gesturing at him. Yuri, who is all for having Otabek's mouth wrapped around him, nods and closes his eyes, waiting for heat to envelop his length. It doesn't come, not in the way Yuri expects. Otabek rearranges his legs so that they are thrown over his shoulder, and when Yuri opens a curious eye, he sees him dip his head, a kiss to his inner thigh trailing until it's-

"What are you-..." Yuri starts, but words fail him as he feels an unmistakable wetness against his entrance. They've never done this, Yuri always being too shy to ask for Otabek's mouth somewhere so intimate, and it's unlike anything he could have fathomed. Otabek hums against him, then runs his tongue up over his perineum to his sac. A hand comes up to feel the weight of Yuri's balls before moving back to where it laid prior against his thigh as Otabek's mouth moves lower again. "Oh my fucking God,  _Beka_."

Yuri feels the vibration of his laughter against him, and his legs tighten around his neck. And then, when Yuri doesn't think it can get any more intense, Otabek begins to apply pressure, and Yuri's eyes roll back. It's unlike a finger or phallus, or any other inanimate object Yuri's used on himself, but hot and yielding, moulding to the shape of him. Otabek fucks him open with his tongue tenderly, stroking Yuri's skin in encouragement as he cries out and grips the sheets either side of him, eventually stopping to guide one of his hands into his hair. Yuri tugs, and he twists, and he turns his face into the pillows as he feels Otabek's saliva dripping down him, slick on his thighs and smearing onto the sheets.

He's never had sex in this bed before- and what a way it is to christen it.

"Alright?" Otabek asks, drawing away from him. His mouth is red and swollen, and his chin glistens in the stray beams of streetlight streaming through the window. His eyes fall to Yuri's dick, hard and straining against his stomach. Yuri itches to touch himself, his knuckles ache from restraining himself, and he cries out when Otabek ghosts his knuckles over his length. His hips grind up, wanting more, but Otabek smiles, much too sweetly for someone who was just eating him out, and drops a kiss to Yuri's hipbone.

"Beka,  _please_ ," Yuri begs, catching on a whine. He lets his legs drop from Otabek's shoulders, and hungrily accepts the kiss he's offered when Otabek crawls back up the bed, tasting the musk of himself on his lips. His hips keep searching for friction, his head foggy with need. All he can do is keen, any semblance of rational vocabulary has evaporated with his patience.

"Not yet, baby," Otabek soothes, fingers gentle in Yuri's hair. "I want to come together."

"I'm ready," Yuri insists, kissing sloppily at his jaw, teeth catching against his chin. "I'm ready for you, Beka."

"I know," he says, stroking Yuri's cheek one last time before rolling onto his back. He strokes himself for a moment, staring down at Yuri's flushed torso, the trail of precome leaking from his tip and pooling at his navel, to get to full hardness. Then, when Yuri feels like he can't take any more waiting, he pats his thigh. "Climb on."

 _Oh_.

Yuri loves riding Otabek, loves the feel of being in control, a strong chest beneath his palm, nails digging into his hips. He doesn't feel in control right now, though, clumsily straddling Otabek's thighs, body trembling as he reaches behind himself to align themselves and rising up on his knees. Otabek watches as if capturing every second, the way Yuri bites his lip as the head of his dick meets his entrance, the sigh that scatters over the room as he begins to sink down on him. He takes it slow and embraces the stretch, barely comprehending the chocked words of encouragement Otabek utters as he sinks down lower on his dick.

Yuri's panting by the time he's bottomed out, sweat gathered at his brow and prickling the back of his neck. Otabek's hand is cool against his heated cheek, caressing, thumb swiping for his chin to the corner of his mouth. Yuri tilts into it and takes it between his lips, sucking, biting as he slowly grids into Otabek's hips.

" _Yura,_ " he breathes, pulling away his hand. A string of saliva still connects them, breaking and falling onto Otabek's chest. Yuri leans down and kisses up its silvery path, nipping upwards until he finally meets Otabek's mouth. It's less kissing, more panting into each other's mouths as Yuri sets a slow, sensuous rhythm, breaking only to breathe Beka's name, or to press his lips wherever they can reach.

"I love you," he slurs, when one of Otabek's hands move from his hip to trail up to his chest. It lays over his heart as Yuri rises and falls over him, and is joined by Otabek's forehead when it drops forward in exertion. Yuri hisses when he feels the stab of teeth against his pectoral, followed by the soothing swathe of a hot tongue. It encircles the area bitten, but soon teases at Yuri's nipple until it's sore and aching. He curses Otabek's name, grasps his hair in a way that's got to hurt, and tugs his head back. "Touch me."

A sharp, kiss, and Otabek does, wrapping his hand around him and stroking. It's clumsy at first in a way that Yuri would find endearing if his head wasn't clouded with pleasure, but they soon manage to find a rhythm between them, sinking down, thrusting up, tugging in between. It's not long until Yuri can feel Otabek's hips stuttering, can feel the desperation in the way that he clings to him, faces together, noses pressed. Yuri can feel it too, can feel it building in his groin, deep within him, intensified when Otabek twists just right, when he kisses him way too softly for the harsh slap of their skin meeting and parting.

"I'm gonna-" Otabek says, and he bites his lip, brows furrowed in restraint.

Yuri kisses the tension away, his own voice strained as he says, "Wait for me."

"Always," he breathes, rubbing his cheek into Yuri's shoulder. "I love you, Yura."

It's irrepressible after that. Yuri lifts his hips, and grids down deeply, clenching tightly around Otabek and feeling him twitch inside him. He comes with a grunt, smothered into Yuri's skin, holding onto him so tight Yuri's sure he's going to leave an imprint of his body on his delicate skin. He thrusts weakly into him as he spills, still stroking over Yuri's straining erection as he rides out his orgasm. It's the soft little hum as he finishes that ends Yuri, and he release over Otabek's fist between their stomachs, hot and heavy. His body sags, his elbows resting either side of Otabek's shoulders, as he breathes through it, taking in their mingling scents, the musk of sex and sweat, raw and primal and something distinctly them. Their love.

"Hey," Otabek says when Yuri comes back to himself. He awkwardly sprawled over Otabek's chest, in his cooling release, hair still damp from the shower and who knows what else in his mouth. Otabek hooks a finger in the strands that are caught and reels them out, and Yuri turns his nose up at the spit that glistens with it.

"Gross," Yuri says, and he doesn't just mean his hair. Now that Otabek's softening, he can feel his come starting to drip from him and run down the back of his thighs. He reaches back to swipe at the mess, and snears at his slick fingers. "I'd like some amazing aftercare now, please."

"Nope," Otabek says with a smile, sliding out of Yuri fully and pulling him in closer. Yuri wants to scowl at the stickiness between them, but he's smiling. Laughing, even, when Otabek begins to pepper his face with kisses and dance his fingers over Yuri's ticklish sides. "Let's just enjoy the moment."

Yuri  _supposes_ he can do that.

He also supposes that staying up all night having sex-  _making love_ , he corrects himself- with his boyfriend is a great way to beat jetlag.

It's just before dawn when exhaustion finally begins to settle into his bones, but Otabek's touch is keeping him awake. It's softer, now, with their insecurities aired and their hearts bared in their chests, tender in the early sunlight. Otabek's mouth explores every curve, every contour of Yuri's body until he's arching off of the bed, straining against the warm rays that escape through the cracks in the curtains. He doesn't know what's different, but there's a poignancy that wasn't there before. Maybe it's the way that Otabek looks in the ochre light, soft and warm, dreamlike, or maybe it's the hours of being physically and emotionally exposed catching up to him.

Yuri cries. Quiet, at first, face turned into the pillow as Otabek mouth travels up his leg, kissing the apex of his knee and nuzzling up the juncture of his thigh. He can't hide the sob, though, that breaks free from his mouth as his fingers sink into him and his mouth surrounds his head. It's not unlike a moan, but it happens again when Otabek curls into him just right, and again when he hits the back of his throat.

"Yura?" Otabek questions, voice husky, breath hot against Yuri's stomach. He drops a kiss to his navel that makes Yuri's muscles flicker beneath his mouth, and he scrubs at the wetness on his cheeks.

"I'm okay," he reassures, voice coated thickly with tears. He strokes Otabek's hair away from his face, smoothing the curls between his fingertips as he tries to steady his breathing. "Keep going."

It gets worse. Otabek continues, and he's alright for a little while, focussing on the pleasure growing within him, the stark scratch of stubble against his skin and the contrasting soft flourish of fingers, exploring- but then it changes. Otabek pulls off of him and begins kissing him, from his hip down to the apex of his thigh. The touch is heavy, weighing Yuri down onto the mattress, but then he begins murmuring, confessions of love bitten into his flesh, and every word anchors him here, now,  _forever_.

"I love you," Otabek says, cheek against Yuri's chest, the fingers of one hand still working inside him as the others reach to collect the tears that gather at the corners of his eyes. Yuri wants to hate this, how weak he's become in the face of love, but he finds himself at a contradiction; opening himself up, sharing this most intimate form of himself, he's never felt stronger.

"Are you okay?" Otabek asks once it's over. Yuri's never come without a hand on himself before, but Otabek's somehow managed it through body worship; words like prayer, touching him as if he's something sacred,  _celestial_ , and then christening his chest with his come.

He'd had the decency to look sheepish after he'd finished, straddling Yuri's hips, softening in his hand, the echo of God's name in vain from his parted lips shimmering through the sunlight.

Yuri sniffs and manages a watery smile. "Yeah."

"You sure?" He's throwing aside the soiled shirt they've been using to clean themselves up and pushing himself up the bed. Yuri blinks as he kisses his cheek, then runs his mouth up to his under eye.

"I just," he starts, nose wrinkling as Otabek continues to kiss away his tears. It would be sweet if his stubble wasn't irritating his skin so much. "I just  _really_ love you."

"You do?" he hums, leaning over him. There's a goofy smile brightening his face, and his eyes crinkle happily. "I couldn't tell."

"Shut the fuck up, Altin," Yuri says, slapping Otabek's bare chest, but he's smiling too. "Go and shut those bloody curtains. I could sleep for an eternity, now."

"That good?" Otabek says, a reflection from earlier, a single brow raised as he tugs the blackouts until he's cast in shadows.

Yuri rolls his eyes and kicks back the sheets. They're stained with God knows what, but that's a problem for future Yuri- or, with a little persuasion, future Otabek. Potya wanders in from her hiding spot, and Yuri feels guilty for scaring her away with his antics. She gives him a serious case of stink eye before jumping up onto the bed. Knowing that Otabek's chest is now reserved for someone else, she curls up at his side, only complaining when Yuri pulls the duvet up and over two pairs of shoulders.

Otabek wraps himself tight around Yuri's body, face curled into his neck. Yuri can feel his smile pressing into his skin, can feel his own in the ache of his cheeks.  _That good?_ He stares down at his dishevelled lover, and feels his heart stutter at the sight. "You have no idea."

Otabek laughs, and it sounds like heaven.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this, like so many of my ideas, was supposed to be a oneshot! 20k later and here we are at the end! I hope y'all enjoyed the ride! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented, to Foxy for reading this through for me, for Never listening to me complain forever and all of the other Stupid Idiots tm (; 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @[ zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ or follow me on twitter @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> See you next time!
> 
> xoxo Cat


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